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HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY, 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


THE  LIFE  OF  NANCY 


BY 


SARAH   ORNE  JEWETT 


BOSTON   AND   NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 

@fyt  Iftifcergitie  $re?&  Cambridge 


Copyright,  1895, 
BY  SARAH  ORNE  JEWETT. 

All  rights  reserved. 


£fK 


< 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


CONTENTS. 


THE  LIFE  OF  NANCY 1 

FAME'S  LITTLE  DAY 43 

A  WAR  DEBT 60 

THE  HILTONS'  HOLIDAY 97 

THE  ONLY  ROSE 128 

A  SECOND  SPRING 156 

LITTLE  FRENCH  MARY 203 

THE  GUESTS  OF  MRS.  TIMMS     ....  213 

A  NEIGHBOR'S  LANDMARK 244 

ALL  MY  SAD  CAPTAINS 277 


THE   LIFE   OF  NANCY. 


i. 

THE  wooded  hills  and  pastures  of  eastern 
Massachusetts  are  so  close  to  Boston  that 
from  upper  windows  of  the  city,  looking 
westward,  you  can  see  the  tops  of  pine-trees 
and  orchard-boughs  on  the  high  horizon. 
There  is  a  rustic  environment  on  the  land 
ward  side ;  there  are  old  farmhouses  at  the 
back  of  Milton  Hill  and  beyond  Belmont 
which  look  as  unchanged  by  the  besieging 
suburbs  of  a  great  city  as  if  they  were  forty 
miles  from  even  its  borders.  Now  and  then, 
in  Boston  streets,  you  can  see  an  old  farmer 
in  his  sleigh  or  farm  wagon  as  if  you  saw 
him  in  a  Berkshire  village.  He  seems  neither 
to  look  up  at  the  towers  nor  down  at  any 
fashionable  citizens,  but  goes  his  way  alike 
unconscious  of  seeing  or  being  seen. 

On  a  certain  day  a  man  came  driving 
along  Beacon  Street,  who  looked  bent  in  the 


2  THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY. 

shoulders,  as  if  his  worn  fur  cap  were  too 
heavy  for  head  and  shoulders  both.  This 
type  of  the  ancient  New  England  farmer  in 
winter  twitched  the  reins  occasionally,  like 
an  old  woman,  to  urge  the  steady  white  horse 
that  plodded  along  as  unmindful  of  his 
master's  suggestions  as  of  the  silver-mounted 
harnesses  that  passed  them  by.  Both  horse 
and  driver  appeared  to  be  conscious  of  suffi 
cient  wisdom,  and  even  worth,  for  the  duties 
of  life ;  but  all  this  placidity  and  self-assur 
ance  were  in  sharp  contrast  to  the  eager  ex 
citement  of  a  pretty,  red-cheeked  girl  who 
sat  at  the  driver's  side.  She  was  as  sensi 
tive  to  every  new  impression  as  they  were 
dull.  Her  face  bloomed  out  of  a  round  white 
hood  in  such  charming  fashion  that  those  who 
began  to  smile  at  an  out-of-date  equipage 
were  interrupted  by  a  second  and  stronger 
instinct,  and  paid  the  homage  that  one  must 
always  pay  to  beauty. 

It  was  a  bitter  cold  morning.  The  great 
sleighbells  on  the  horse's  shaggy  neck  jangled 
along  the  street,  and  seemed  to  still  them 
selves  as  they  came  among  the  group  of 
vehicles  that  were  climbing  the  long  hill  by 
the  Common. 

As   the  sleigh  passed   a  clubhouse   that 


THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY.  3 

stands  high  on  the  slope,  a  young  man  who 
stood  idly  behind  one  of  the  large  windows 
made  a  hurried  step  forward,  and  his  sober 
face  relaxed  into  a  broad,  delighted  smile ; 
then  he  turned  quickly,  and  presently  ap 
pearing  at  the  outer  door,  scurried  down  the 
long  flight  of  steps  to  the  street,  fastening 
the  top  buttons  of  his  overcoat  by  the  way. 
The  old  sleigh,  with  its  worn  buffalo  skin 
hanging  unevenly  over  the  back,  was  only  a 
short  distance  up  the  street,  but  its  pursuer 
found  trouble  in  gaining  much  upon  the 
steady  gait  of  the  white  horse.  He  ran  two 
or  three  steps  now  and  then,  and  was  almost 
close  enough  to  speak  as  he  drew  near  to 
the  pavement  by  the  State  House.  The 
pretty  girl  was  looking  up  with  wonder  and 
delight,  but  in  another  moment  they  went 
briskly  on,  and  it  was  not  until  a  long  pause 
had  to  be  made  at  the  blocked  crossing  of 
Tremont  Street  that  the  chase  was  ended. 

The  wonders  of  a  first  visit  to  Boston  were 
happily  continued  to  Miss  Nancy  Gale  in 
the  sudden  appearance  at  her  side  of  a  hand 
some  young  gentleman.  She  put  out  a  most 
cordial  and  warm  hand  from  her  fitch  muff, 
and  her  acquaintance  noticed  with  pleasure 
the  white  knitted  mitten  that  protected  it 


4  THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY. 

from  the  weather.  He  had  not  yet  found 
time  to  miss  the  gloves  left  behind  at  the 
club,  but  the  warm  little  mitten  was  very 
comfortable  to  his  fingers. 

"  I  was  just  thinking  —  I  hoped  I  should 
see  you,  when  I  was  starting  to  come  in  this 
morning,"  she  said,  with  an  eager  look  of 
pleasure  ;  then,  growing  shy  after  the  un 
conscious  joy  of  the  first  moment,  "  Boston 
is  a  pretty  big  place,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  We  all  think  so,"  said  Tom  Aldis  with 
fine  candor.  "  It  seems  odd  to  see  you 
here." 

"  Uncle  Ezra,  this  is  Mr.  Aldis  that  I  have 
been  telling  you  about,  who  was  down  at  our 
place  so  long  in  the  fall,"  explained  Nancy, 
turning  to  look  appealingly  at  her  stern 
companion.  "  Mr.  Aldis  had  to  remain  with 
a  friend  who  had  sprained  his  ankle.  Is  Mr. 
Carew  quite  well  now  ?  "  she  turned  again 
to  ask. 

"  Oh  yes,"  answered  Tom.  "  I  saw  him 
last  week ;  he  's  in  New  York  this  winter. 
But  where  are  you  staying,  Nancy  ? "  he 
asked  eagerly,  with  a  hopeful  glance  at  uncle 
Ezra.  "I  should  like  to  take  you  some 
where  this  afternoon.  This  is  your  first 
visit,  is  n't  it  ?  Could  n't  you  go  to  see  Rip 


THE  LIFE   OF  NANCY.  5 

Van  Winkle  to-morrow  ?  It  's  the  very  best 
thing  there  is  just  now.  Jefferson  's  playing 
this  week." 

"  Our  folks  ain't  in  the  habit  of  attend 
ing  theatres,  sir,"  said  uncle  Ezra,  checking 
this  innocent  plan  as  effectually  as  an  un- 
tracked  horse-car  was  stopping  traffic  in  the 
narrow  street.  He  looked  over  his  shoulder 
to  see  if  there  were  any  room  to  turn,  but 
was  disappointed. 

Tom  Aldis  gave  a  glance,  also,  and  was 
happily  reassured ;  the  street  was  getting 
fuller  behind  them  every  moment.  "  I  beg 
you  to  excuse  me,  sir,"  he  said  gallantly  to 
the  old  man.  "  Do  you  think  of  anything 
else  that  Miss  Gale  ought  to  see  ?  There  is 
the  Art  Museum,  if  she  has  n't  been  there 
already;  all  the  pictures  and  statues  and 
Egyptian  things,  you  know." 

There  was  much  deference  and  courtesy 
in  the  young  man's  behavior  to  his  senior. 
Uncle  Ezra  responded  by  a  less  suspicious 
look  at  him,  but  seemed  to  be  considering 
this  new  proposition  before  he  spoke.  Uncle 
Ezra  was  evidently  of  the  opinion  that  while 
it  might  be  a  misfortune  to  be  an  old  man, 
it  was  a  fault  to  be  a  young  one  and  good 
looking  where  girls  were  concerned. 


6  THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY. 

"  Miss  Gale's  father  and  mother  showed 
me  so  much  kindness,"  Tom  explained,  seiz 
ing  his  moment  of  advantage,  "  I  should  like 
to  be  of  some  use  :  it  may  not  be  convenient 
for  you  to  come  into  town  again  in  this  cold 
weather." 

"  Our  folks  have  plenty  to  do  all  the 
time,  that  's  a  fact,"  acknowledged  uncle 
Ezra  less  grimly,  while  Nancy  managed  to 
show  the  light  of  a  very  knowing  little  smile. 
"  I  don't  know  but  she  'd  like  to  have  a  city 
man  show  her  about,  anyways.  'T  ain't  but 
four  miles  an'  a  half  out  to  our  place,  the  way 
we  come,  but  while  this  weather  holds  I  don't 
calculate  to  get  into  Boston  more  'n  once  a 
week.  I  fetch  all  my  stuff  in  to  the  Quincy 
Market  myself,  an'  I  've  got  to  come  in  day 
after  to-morrow  mornin',  but  not  till  late, 
with  a  barrel  o'  nice  winter  pears  I  've  been 
a-savin'.  I  can  set  the  barrel  right  for'ard 
in  the  sleigh  here,  and  I  do'  know  but  I  can 
fetch  Nancy  as  well  as  not.  But  how  'd  ye 
get  home,  Nancy  ?  Could  ye  walk  over  to 
our  place  from  the  Milton  depot,  or  could  n't 
ye?" 

"  Why,  of  course  I  could !  "  answered  his 
niece,  with  a  joy  calmed  by  discretion. 

"  'T  ain't  but  a  mile  an'  three  quarters  ; 


THE  LIFE    OF  NANCY.  7 

't  won't  hurt  a  State  'o  Maine  girl,"  said  the 
old  man,  smiling  under  his  great  cap,  so  that 
his  cold,  shrewd  eyes  suddenly  grew  blue 
and  boyish.  "  I  know  all  about  ye  now, 
Mr.  Aldis;  I  used  to  be  well  acquainted 
with  your  grandfather.  Much  obliged  to 
you.  Yes,  I  '11  fetch  Nancy.  I  '11  leave  her 
right  up  there  to  the  Missionary  Building, 
corner  o'  Somerset  Street.  She  can  wait  in 
the  bookstore ;  it 's  liable  to  be  open  early. 
After  I  get  through  business  to-day,  I'm 
goin'  to  leave  the  hoss,  an'  let  her  see  Fan- 
euil  Hall,  an'  the  market  o'  course,  and  I 
don't  know  but  we  shall  stop  in  to  the  Old 
South  Church;  or  you  can  show  her  that, 
an'  tell  her  about  any  other  curiosities,  if 
we  don't  have  time." 

Nancy  looked  radiant,  and  Tom  Aldis 
accepted  his  trust  with  satisfaction.  At 
that  moment  the  blockade  was  over  and 
teams  began  to  move. 

"  Not  if  it  rains !  "  said  uncle  Ezra,  speak 
ing  distinctly  over  his  shoulder  as  they 
started.  "  Otherwise  expect  her  about  eight 
or  a  little  "  — :but  the  last  of  the  sentence 
was  lost. 

Nancy  looked  back  and  nodded  from 
the  tangle  to  Tom,  who  stood  on  the  curb- 


8  THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY. 

stone  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  Her 
white  hood  bobbed  out  of  sight  the  next 
moment  in  School  Street  behind  a  great 
dray. 

"  Good  gracious  !  eight  o'clock !  "  said 
Tom,  a  little  daunted,  as  he  walked  quickly 
up  the  street.  As  he  passed  the  Missionary 
Building  and  the  bookstore,  he  laughed 
aloud ;  but  as  he  came  near  the  clubhouse 
again,  in  this  victorious  retreat,  he  looked 
up  at  a  window  of  one  of  the  pleasant  old 
houses,  and  then  obeyed  the  beckoning  nod 
of  an  elderly  relative  who  seemed  to  have 
been  watching  for  his  return. 

"  Tom,"  said  she,  as  he  entered  the 
library,  "  I  insist  upon  it  that  I  am  not 
curious  by  nature  or  by  habit,  but  what 
in  the  world  made  you  chase  that  funny  old 
horse  and  sleigh?" 

"  A  pretty  girl,"  said  Tom  frankly. 


II. 

The  second  morning  after  this  unex 
pected  interview  was  sunshiny  enough,  and 
as  cold  as  January  could  make  it.  Tom 
Aldis,  being  young  and  gay,  was  apt  to 
keep  late  hours  at  this  season,  and  the  night 


THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY. 


9 


before  had  been  the  night  of  a  Harvard 
assembly.  He  was  the  kindest-hearted  fellow 
in  the  world,  but  it  was  impossible  not  to 
feel  a  little  glum  and  sleepy  as  he  hur 
ried  toward  the  Missionary  Building.  The 
sharp  air  had  urged  uncle  Ezra's  white  horse 
beyond  his  customary  pace,  so  that  the  old 
sleigh  was  already  waiting,  and  uncle  Ezra 
himself  was  flapping  his  chilled  arms  and 
tramping  to  and  fro  impatiently. 

"  Cold  mornin' !  "  he  said.  "  She  's  wait- 
in'  for  you  in  there.  I  wanted  to  be  sure 
you'd  come.  Now  I'll  be  off.  I've  got 
them  pears  well  covered,  but  I  expect  they 
may  be  touched.  Nancy  counted  on  comin', 
an'  I  'd  just  as  soon  she  'd  have  a  nice  time. 
Her  cousin's  folks  '11  see  her  to  the  depot," 
he  added  as  he  drove  away,  and  Tom  nodded 
reassuringly  from  the  bookstore  door. 

Nancy  looked  up  eagerly  from  beside  a 
counter  full  of  gayly  bound  books,  and  gave 
him  a  speechless  and  grateful  good-morn 
ing. 

"  I  'm  getting  some  presents  for  the  little 
boys,"  she  informed  him.  "  They  're  great 
hands  to  read.  This  one  's  all  about  birds, 
for  Sam,  and  I  don't  know  but  this  Life  o' 
Napoleon '11  please  Asa  as  much  as  any- 


10  THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY. 

thing.  When  I  waked  up  this  morning  I 
felt  homesick.  I  could  n't  see  anything  out 
o'  the  window  that  I  knew.  I  'm  a  real 
home  body." 

"  I  should  like  to  send  the  boys  a  present, 
myself,"  said  Tom.  "  What  do  you  think 
about  jack-knives  ?  " 

"  Asa  'd  rather  have  readin'  matter ;  he 
ain't  got  the  use  for  a  knife  that  some 
boys  have.  Why,  you're  real  good !  "  said 
Nancy. 

"  And  your  mother,  —  can't  I  send  her 
something  that  she  would  like?  "  asked  Tom 
kindly. 

"  She  liked  all  those  things  that  you  and 
Mr.  Carew  sent  at  Christmas  time.  We 
had  the  loveliest  time  opening  the  bundles. 
You  ought  n't  to  think  o'  doing  anything 
more.  I  wish  you'd  help  me  pick  out  a 
nice  large-print  Bible  for  grandma ;  she  's 
always  wishing  for  a  large-print  Bible,  and 
her  eyes  fail  her  a  good  deal." 

Tom  Aldis  was  not  very  fond  of  shop 
ping,  but  this  pious  errand  did  not  displease 
him  in  Nancy's  company.  A  few  minutes 
later,  when  they  went  out  into  the  cold 
street,  he  felt  warm  and  cheerful,  and  car 
ried  under  his  arm  the  flat  parcel  which 


THE  LIFE    OF  NANCY.  11 

held  a  large-print  copy  of  the  Scriptures 
and  the  little  boys'  books.  Seeing  Nancy 
again  seemed  to  carry  his  thoughts  back  to 
East  Rodney,  as  if  he  had  been  born  and 
brought  up  there  as  well  as  she.  The  society 
and  scenery  of  the  little  coast  town  were  so 
simple  and  definite  in  their  elements  that 
one  easily  acquired  a  feeling  of  citizenship  ; 
it  was  like  becoming  acquainted  with  a 
friendly  individual.  Tom  had  an  intimate 
knowledge,  gained  from  several  weeks'  resi 
dence,  with  Nancy's  whole  world. 

The  long  morning  stretched  before  them 
like  a  morning  in  far  Cathay,  and  they 
stepped  off  down  the  street  toward  the  Old 
South  Church,  which  had  been  omitted 
from  uncle  Ezra's  scheme  of  entertainment 
by  reason  of  difficulty  in  leaving  the  horse. 
The  discovery  that  the  door  would  not  be 
open  for  nearly  another  hour  only  involved 
a  longer  walk  among  the  city  streets,  and  the 
asking  and  answering  of  many  questions 
about  the  East  Rodney  neighbors,  and  the 
late  autumn  hunting  and  fishing  which,  with 
some  land  interests  of  his  father's,  had  first 
drawn  Tom  to  that  part  of  the  country. 
He  had  known  enough  of  the  rest  of  the 
world  to  appreciate  the  little  community 


12  THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY. 

of  fishermen-farmers,  and  while  his  friend 
Carew  was  but  a  complaining  captive  with 
a  sprained  ankle,  Tom  Aldis  entered  into 
the  spirit  of  rural  life  with  great  zest ;  in 
fact  he  now  remembered  some  boyish  gal 
lantries  with  a  little  uneasiness,  and  looked 
to  Nancy  to  befriend  him.  It  was  easy  for 
a  man  of  twenty-two  to  arrive  at  an  almost 
brotherly  affection  for  such  a  person  as 
Nancy ;  she  was  so  discreet  and  so  sincerely 
affectionate. 

Nancy  looked  up  at  him  once  or  twice  as 
they  walked  along,  and  her  face  glowed 
with  happy  pride.  "  I  'd  just  like  to  have 
Addie  Porter  see  me  now!  "  she  exclaimed,, 
and  gave  Tom  a  straightforward  look  to 
which  he  promptly  responded. 

"Why?"  he  asked. 

Nancy  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief,  and 
began  to  smile. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  she  answered ;  "  only  she 
kept  telling  me  that  you  would  n't  have 
much  of  anything  to  say  to  me,  if  I  should 
happen  to  meet  you  anywhere  up  to  Boston. 
I  knew  better.  I  guess  you  're  all  right, 
are  n't  you,  about  that  ?  "  She  spoke  with 
sudden  impulse,  but  there  was  something  in 
her  tone  that  made  Tom  blush  a  little. 


THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY.  13 

"Why,  yes,"  he  answered.  "What  do 
you  mean,  Nancy?  " 

"  We  won't  talk  about  it  now  while  we're 
full  of  seeing  things,  but  I've  got  some 
thing  to  say  by  and  by,"  said  the  girl  so 
berly. 

"  You  're  very  mysterious,"  protested 
Tom,  taking  the  bundle  under  his  other 
arm,  and  piloting  her  carefully  across  the 
street. 

Nancy  said  no  more.  The  town  was 
more  interesting  now  that  it  seemed  to  have 
waked  up,  and  her  eyes  were  too  busy. 
Everything  proved  delightful  that  day, 
from  the  recognition  of  business  signs  fami 
liar  to  her  through  newspaper  advertise 
ments,  to  the  Great  Organ,  and  the  thrill 
which  her  patriotic  heart  experienced  in  a 
second  visit  to  Faneuil  Hall.  They  found 
the  weather  so  mild  that  they  pushed  on  to 
Charlestown,  and  went  to  the  top  of  the 
monument,  which  Tom  had  not  done  since 
he  was  a  very  small  boy.  After  this  they 
saw  what  else  they  could  of  historic  Bos 
ton,  on  the  fleetest  and  lightest  of  feet,  and 
talked  all  the  way,  until  they  were  sud 
denly  astonished  to  hear  the  bells  in  all  the 
steeples  ring  at  noon. 


14  THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY. 

"  Oil  dear,  my  nice  mornin'  's  all  gone," 
said  Nancy  regretfully.  "  I  never  had  such 
a  beautiful  time  in  all  my  life !  " 

She  looked  quite  beautiful  herself  as  she 
spoke :  her  eyes  shone  with  lovely  light  and 
feeling,  and  her  cheeks  were  bright  with  color 
like  a  fresh-bloomed  rose,  but  for  the  first 
time  that  day  she  was  wistful  and  sorry. 

"  Oh,  you  need  n't  go  back  yet !  "  said 
Tom.  "  I  've  nothing  in  the  world  to  do." 

"  Uncle  Ezra  thought  I  'd  better  go  up  to 
cousin  Snow's  in  Revere  Street.  I  'm  afraid 
she  '11  be  all  through  dinner,  but  never 
mind.  They  thought  I  'd  better  go  there  on 
mother's  account ;  it 's  her  cousin,  but  I 
never  saw  her,  at  least  not  since  I  can  re 
member.  They  won't  like  it  if  I  don't,  you 
know  ;  it  would  n't  be  very  polite." 

"  All  right,"  assented  Tom  with  dignity. 
"  I  '11  take  you  there  at  once :  perhaps  we 
can  catch  a  car  or  something." 

"  I  'm  ashamed  to  ask  for  anything  more 
when  you've  been  so  kind,"  said  Nancy, 
after  a  few  moments  of  anxious  silence. 
"  I  don't  know  that  you  can  think  of  any 
good  chance,  but  I'd  give  a  great  deal  if 
I  could  only  go  somewhere  and  see  some 
pretty  dancing.  You  know  I  'm  always 


THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY.  15 

dreamin'  and  drearnin'  about  pretty  dan 
cing  !  "  and  she  looked  eagerly  at  Tom  to  see 
what  he  would  say.  "  It  must  be  goin'  on 
somewhere  in  Boston,"  she  went  on  with 
pleading  eyes.  "  Could  you  ask  somebody  ? 
They  said  at  uncle  Ezra's  that  if  cousin 
Abby  Snow  wanted  me  to  remain  until 
to-morrow  it  might  be  just  as  well  to  stay ; 
she  used  to  be  so  well  acquainted  with 
mother.  And  so  I  thought  —  I  might  get 
some  nice  chance  to  look  on." 

"  To  see  some  dancing,"  repeated  Tom, 
mindful  of  his  own  gay  evening  the  night 
before,  and  of  others  to  come,  and  the  gen 
eral  impossibility  of  Nancy's  finding  the 
happiness  she  sought.  He  never  had  been 
so  confronted  by  social  barriers.  As  for 
Nancy's  dancing  at  East  Rodney,  in  the 
schoolhouse  hall  or  in  Jacob  Parker's  new 
barn,  it  had  been  one  of  the  most  ideal 
things  he  had  ever  known  in  his  life  ;  it 
would  be  hard  to  find  elsewhere  such  grace 
as  hers.  In  seaboard  towns  one  often  comes 
upon  strange  foreign  inheritances,  and  the 
soul  of  a  Spanish  grandmother  might  still 
survive  in  Nancy,  as  far  as  her  light  feet 
were  concerned.  She  danced  like  a  flower 
in  the  wind.  She  made  you  feel  light  of 


16  THE   LIFE    OF   NANCY. 

foot  yourself,  as  if  you  were  whirling 
and  blowing  and  waving  through  the  air ; 
as  if  you  could  go  out  dancing  and  dancing 
over  the  deep  blue  sea  water  of  the  bay,  and 
find  floor  enough  to  touch  and  whirl  upon. 
But  Nancy  had  always  seemed  to  take  her 
gifts  for  granted ;  she  had  the  simplicity  of 
genius.  "  I  can't  say  now,  but  I  am  sure  to 
find  out,"  said  Tom  Aldis  definitely.  "  I  '11 
try  to  make  some  sort  of  plan  for  you.  I 
wish  we  could  have  another  dance,  our 
selves." 

"  Oh,  not  now,"  answered  Nancy  sensibly. 
"It's  knowing  'most  all  the  people  that 
makes  a  party  pleasant." 

"  My  aunt  would  have  asked  you  to  come 
to  luncheon  to-day,  but  she  had  to  go  out  of 
town,  and  was  afraid  of  not  getting  back  in 
season.  She  would  like  to  see  you  very 
much.  You  see,  I  'm  only  a  bachelor  in  lodg 
ings,  this  winter,"  explained  Tom  bravely. 

"  You  Ve  been  just  as  good  as  you  could 
be.  I  know  all  about  Boston  now,  almost  as 
if  I  lived  here.  I  should  like  to  see  the 
inside  of  one  of  those  big  houses,"  she 
added  softly  ;  "  they  all  look  so  noble  as 
you  go  by.  I  think  it  was  very  polite  of 
your  aunt;  you  must  thank  her,  Mr.  Aldis." 


THE    LIFE    OF   NANCY.  17 

It  seemed  to  Tom  as  if  his  companion  were 
building  most  glorious  pleasure  out  of  very 
commonplace  materials.  All  the  morning 
she  had  been  as  gay  and  busy  as  a  brook. 

By  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  he 
knocked  again  at  cousin  Snow's  door  in  Re 
vere  Street,  and  delivered  an  invitation. 
Mrs.  Annesley,  his  aunt,  and  the  kindest  of 
women,  would  take  Nancy  to  an  afternoon 
class  at  Papanti's,  and  bring  her  back  after 
wards,  if  cousin  Snow  were  willing  to  spare 
her.  Tom  would  wait  and  drive  back  with 
her  in  the  coupe  ;  then  he  must  hurry  to 
Cambridge  for  a  business  meeting  to  which 
he  had  been  suddenly  summoned. 

Nancy  was  radiant  when  she  first  appeared, 
but  a  few  minutes  later,  as  they  drove  away 
together,  she  began  to  look  grave  and  ab 
sent.  It  was  only  because  she  was  so  sorry 
to  think  of  parting. 

"  I  am  so  glad  about  the  dancing  class," 
said  Tom.  "  I  never  should  have  thought 
of  that.  They  are  all  children,  you  know ; 
but  it 's  very  pretty,  and  they  have  all  the 
new  dances.  I  used  to  think  it  a  horrid 
penance  when  I  was  a  small  boy." 

"  I  don't  know  why  it  is,"  said  Nancy, 
"  but  the  mere  thought  of  music  and  dancin' 


18  THE   LIFE    OF   NANCY. 

makes  me  feel  happy.  I  never  saw  any  real 
good  dancin',  either,  but  I  can  always  think 
what  it  ought  to  be.  There's  nothing  so 
beautiful  to  me  as  manners,"  she  added 
softly,  as  if  she  whispered  at  the  shrine  of 
confidence. 

"  My  aunt  thinks  there  are  going  to  be 
some  pretty  figure  dances  to-day,"  announced 
Tom  in  a  matter-of-fact  way.  There  was 
something  else  than  the  dancing  upon  his 
mind.  He  thought  that  he  ought  to  tell 
Nancy  of  his  engagement,  —  not  that  it  was 
quite  an  engagement  yet,  —  but  he  could 
not  do  it  just  now.  "  What  was  it  you  were 
going  to  tell  me  this  morning  ?  About  Ad- 
die  Porter,  was  n't  it  ?  "  He  laughed  a  little, 
and  then  colored  deeply.  He  had  been 
somewhat  foolish  in  his  attentions  to  this 
young  person,  the  beguiling  village  belle  of 
East  Rodney  and  the  adjacent  coasts.  She 
was  a  pretty  creature  and  a  sad  flirt,  with 
none  of  the  real  beauty  and  quaint  sisterly 
ways  of  Nancy.  "  What  was  it  all  about  ?  " 
he  asked  again. 

Nancy  turned  away  quickly.  "  That  *s 
one  thing  I  wanted  to  come  to  Boston  for ; 
that 's  what  I  want  to  tell  you.  She  don't 
really  care  anything  about  you.  She  only 


THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY.  19 

wanted  to  get  you  away  from  the  other  girls. 
I  know  for  certain  that  she  likes  Joe  Brown 
better  than  anybody,  and  now  she's  been 
going  with  him  almost  all  winter  long.  He 
keeps  telling  round  that  they  're  going  to  be 
married  in  the  spring ;  but  I  thought  if  they 
were,  she  'd  ask  me  to  get  some  of  her  best 
things  while  I  was  in  Boston.  I  suppose 
she  's  intendin'  to  play  with  him  a  while 
longer,"  said  Nancy  with  honest  scorn, 
"  just  because  he  loves  her  well  enough  to 
wait.  But  don't  you  worry  about  her,  Mr. 
Aldis  !  " 

"  I  won't  indeed,"  answered  Tom  meekly, 
but  with  an  unexpected  feeling  of  relief  as 
if  the  unconscious  danger  had  been  a  real 
one.  Nancy  was  very  serious. 

"  I  'm  going  home  the  first  of  the  week," 
she  said  as  they  parted  ;  but  the  small  hand 
felt  colder  than  usual,  and  did  not  return 
his  warm  grasp.  The  light  in  her  eyes  had 
all  gone,  but  Tom's  beamed  affectionately. 

"  I  never  thought  of  Addie  Porter  after 
ward,  I  'm  afraid,"  he  confessed.  What 
awfully  good  fun  we  all  had  !  I  should  like 
to  go  down  to  East  Rodney  again  some 
time." 

"  Oh,  shan't  you  ever  come  ?  "  cried  Nancy, 


20  THE   LIFE    OF    NANCY. 

with  a  thrill  in  her  voice  which  Tom  did  not 
soon  forget.  He  did  not  know  that  the 
young  girl's  heart  was  waked,  he  was  so 
busy  with  the  affairs  of  his  own  affections  ; 
but  true  friendship  does  not  grow  on  every 
bush,  in  Boston  or  East  Rodney,  and 
Nancy's  voice  and  farewell  look  touched 
something  that  lay  very  deep  within  his 
heart. 

There  is  a  little  more  to  be  told  of  this 
part  of  the  story.  Mrs.  Annesley,  Tom's 
aunt,  being  a  woman  whose  knowledge  of 
human  nature  and  power  of  sympathy  made 
her  a  woman  of  the  world  rather  than  of 
any  smaller  circle,  —  Mrs.  Annesley  was 
delighted  with  Nancy's  unaffected  pleasure 
and  self -forgetful  dignity  of  behavior  at  the 
dancing-school.  She  took  her  back  to  the 
fine  house,  and  they  had  half  an  hour  to 
gether  there,  and  only  parted  because  Nancy 
was  to  spend  the  night  with  cousin  Snow, 
and  another  old  friend  of  her  mother's  was 
to  be  asked  to  tea.  Mrs.  Annesley  asked  her 
to  come  to  see  her  again,  whenever  she  was 
in  Boston,  and  Nancy  gratefully  promised, 
but  she  never  came.  "  I  'm  all  through 
with  Boston  for  this  *time,"  she  said,  with  an 
amused  smile,  at  parting.  "  I  'm  what  one 


THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY.  21 

of  our  neighbors  calls  '  all  flustered  up,' " 
and  she  looked  eagerly  in  her  new  friend's 
kind  eyes  for  sympathy.  "  Now  that  I  've 
seen  this  beautiful  house,  and  you  and  Mr. 
Aldis,  and  some  pretty  dancin',  I  want  to 
go  right  home  where  I  belong." 

Tom  Aldis  meant  to  write  to  Nancy  when 
his  engagement  came  out,  but  he  never  did ; 
and  he  meant  to  send  a  long  letter  to  her  and 
her  mother  two  years  later,  when  he  and  his 
wife  were  going  abroad  for  a  long  time  ;  but 
he  had  an  inborn  hatred  of  letter-writing, 
and  let  that  occasion  pass  also,  though  when 
anything  made  him  very  sorry  or  very  glad, 
he  had  a  curious  habit  of  thinking  of  these 
East  Rodney  friends.  Before  he  went  to 
Europe  he  used  to  send  them  magazines  now 
and  then,  or  a  roll  of  illustrated  papers ; 
and  one  day,  in  a  bookstore,  he  happened  to 
see  a  fine  French  book  with  colored  portraits 
of  famous  dancers,  and  sent  it  by  express  to 
Nancy  with  his  best  remembrances.  But 
Tom  was  young  and  much  occupied,  the 
stream  of  time  floated  him  away  from  the 
shore  of  Maine,  not  toward  it,  ten  or  fifteen 
years  passed  by,  his  brown  hair  began  to 
grow  gray,  and  he  came  back  from  Europe 
after  a  while  to  a  new  Boston  life  in  which 


22  THE    LIFE    OF   NANCY. 

reminiscences  of  East  Rodney  seemed  very 
remote  indeed. 

in. 

One  summer  afternoon  there  were  two 
passengers,  middle-aged  men,  on  the  small 
steamer  James  Madison,  which  attended  the 
comings  and  goings  of  the  great  Boston 
steamer,  and  ran  hither  and  yon  on  errands 
about  Penobscot  Bay.  She  was  puffing  up 
a  long  inlet  toward  East  .Rodney  Landing, 
and  the  two  strangers  were  observing  the 
green  shores  with  great  interest.  Like 
nearly  the  whole  stretch  of  the  Maine  coast, 
there  was  a  house  on  almost  every  point  and 
headland ;  but  for  all  this,  there  were  great 
tracts  of  untenanted  country,  dark  untouched 
forests  of  spruces  and  firs,  and  shady  coves 
where  there  seemed  to  be  deep  water  and 
proper  moorings.  The  two  passengers  were 
on  the  watch  for  landings  and  lookouts ;  in 
short,  this  lovely,  lonely  country  was  being 
frankly  appraised  at  its  probable  value  for 
lumbering  or  for  building-lots  and  its  rela 
tion  to  the  real  estate  market.  Just  now 
there  appeared  to  be  no  citizens  save  crows 
and  herons,  the  sun  was  almost  down  behind 
some  high  hills  in  the  west,  and  the  Land 
ing  was  in  sight  not  very  far  ahead. 


THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY.  23 

"It  is  nearly  twenty  years  since  I  came 
down  here  before,"  said  the  younger  of  the 
two  men,  suddenly  giving  the  conversation 
a  personal  turn.  "  Just  after  I  was  out  of 
college,  at  any  rate.  My  father  had  bought 
this  point  of  land  with  the  islands.  I  think 
he  meant  to  come  and  hunt  in  the  autumn, 
and  was  misled  by  false  accounts  of  deer 
and  moose.  He  sent  me  down  to  oversee 
something  or  other ;  I  believe  he  had  some 
surveyors  at  work,  and  thought  they  had 
better  be  looked  after ;  so  I  got  my  chum 
Carew  to  come  along,  and  we  found  plenty 
of  trout,  and  had  a  great  time  until  he  gave 
his  ankle  a  bad  sprain." 

"What  did  you  do  then?"  asked  the 
elder  man  politely,  keeping  his  eyes  on  the 
shore. 

"  I  stayed  by,  of  course ;  I  had  nothing 
to  do  in  those  days,"  answered  Mr.  Aldis. 
"  It  was  one  of  those  nice  old-fashioned 
country  neighborhoods  where  there  was 
plenty  of  fun  among  the  younger  people,  — 
sailing  on  moonlight  nights,  and  haycart 
parties,  and  dances,  and  all  sorts  of  things. 
We  used  to  go  to  prayer-meeting  nine  or 
ten  miles  off,  and  sewing  societies.  I  had 
hard  work  to  get  away  !  We  made  excuse 


24  THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY. 

of  Carew's  ankle  joint  as  long  as  we  could, 
but  he'd  been  all  right  and  going  every 
where  with  the  rest  of  us  a  fortnight  before 
we  started.  We  waited  until  there  was  ice 
alongshore,  I  remember." 

"  Daniel  R.  Carew,  was  it,  of  the  New 
York  Stock  Exchange  ?  "  asked  the  listener. 
"  He  strikes  you  as  being  a  very  grave  sort 
of  person  now  ;  does  n't  like  it  if  he  finds 
anybody  in  his  chair  at  the  club,  and  all 
that." 

"  I  can  stir  him  up,"  said  Mr.  Aldis  con 
fidently.  "  Poor  old  fellow,  he  has  had  a 
good  deal  of  trouble,  one  way  and  another. 
How  the  Landing  has  grown  up !  Why, 
it 's  a  good-sized  little  town  !  " 

"  I  'm  sorry  it  is  so  late,"  he  added,  after 
a  long  look  at  a  farm  on  the  shore  which 
they  were  passing.  "  I  meant  to  go  to  see 
the  people  up  there,"  and  he  pointed  to  the 
old  farmhouse,  dark  and  low  and  firm- 
rooted  in  the  long  slope  of  half -tamed,  ledgy 
fields.  Warm  thoughts  of  Nancy  filled  his 
heart,  as  if  they  had  said  good-by  to  each 
other  that  cold  afternoon  in  Boston  only  the 
winter  before.  He  had  not  been  so  eager  to 
see  any  one  for  a  long  time.  Such  is  the 
triumph  of  friendship  :  even  love  itself  with- 


THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY.  25 

o.ut  friendship  is  the  victim  of  chance  and 
time. 

When  supper  was  over  in  the  Knox 
House,  the  one  centre  of  public  entertain 
ment  in  East  Rodney,  it  was  past  eight 
o'clock,  and  Mr.  Aldis  felt  like  a  dim  copy 
of  Rip  Van  Winkle,  or  of  the  gay  Tom 
Aldis  who  used  to  know  everybody,  and  be 
known  of  all  men  as  the  planner  of  gayeties. 
He  lighted  a  cigar  as  he  sat  on  the  front 
piazza  of  the  hotel,  and  gave  himself  up  to 
reflection.  There  was  a  long  line  of  lights 
in  the  second  story  of  a  wooden  building 
opposite,  and  he  was  conscious  of  some 
sort  of  public  interest  and  excitement. 

"  There  is  going  to  be  a  time  in  the 
hall,"  said  the  landlord,  who  came  hospi 
tably  out  to  join  him.  "  The  folks  are 
going  to  have  a  dance.  The  proceeds  will 
be  applied  to  buying  a  bell  for  the  new 
schoolhouse.  They  'd  be  pleased  if  you  felt 
like  stepping  over ;  there  has  been  a  consid 
erable  number  glad  to  hear  you  thought  of 
coming  down.  I  ain't  an  East  Rodney  man 
myself,  but  I  've  often  heard  of  your  residin' 
here  some  years  ago.  Our  folks  is  makin' 
the  ice  cream  for  the  occasion,"  he  added 


26  THE    LIFE    OF   NANCY. 

significantly,  and  Mr.  Aldis  nodded  and 
smiled  in  acknowledgment.  He  had  meant 
to  go  out  and  see  the  Gales,  if  the  boat  had 
only  got  in  in  season  ;  but  boats  are  tmpunc- 
tual  in  their  ways,  and  the  James  Madison 
had  been  unexpectedly  signaled  by  one 
little  landing  and  settlement  after  another. 
He  remembered  that  a  great  many  young 
people  were  on  board  when  they  arrived, 
and  now  they  appeared  again,  coming  along 
the  street  and  disappearing  at  the  steep 
stairway  opposite.  The  lighted  windows 
were  full  of  heads  already,  and  there  were 
now  and  then  preliminary  exercises  upon  a 
violin.  Mr.  Aldis  had  grown  old  enough  to 
be  obliged  to  sit  and  think  it  over  about  going 
to  a  ball ;  the  day  had  passed  when  there 
would  have  been  no  question ;  but  when  he 
had  finished  his  cigar  he  crossed  the  street, 
and  only  stopped  before  the  lighted  store 
window  to  find  a  proper  bank  bill  for  the 
doorkeeper.  Then  he  ran  up  the  stairs  to 
the  hall,  as  if  he  were  the  Tom  Aldis  of  old. 
It  was  an  embarrassing  moment  as  he  en 
tered  the  low,  hot  room,  and  the  young  peo 
ple  stared  at  him  suspiciously;  but  there 
were  also  elderly  people  scattered  about  who 
were  meekly  curious  and  interested,  and  one 


THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY.  27 

of  these  got  clumsily  upon  his  feet  and  has 
tened  to  grasp  the  handsome  stranger  by 
the  hand. 

"  Nancy  heard  you  was  coming,"  said  Mr. 
Gale  delightedly.  "  She  expected  I  should 
see  you  here,  if  you  was  just  the  same  kind 
of  a  man  you  used  to  be.  Come  let's  set 
right  down,  folks  is  crowding  in;  there 
may  be  more  to  set  than  there  is  to  dance." 

"  How  is  Nancy,  isn't  she  coming  ?  "  asked 
Tom,  feeling  the  years  tumble  off  his  shoul 
ders. 

"  Well  as  usual,  poor  creatur,"  replied  the 
old  father,  with  a  look  o£  surprise.  "  No, 
no  ;  she  can't  go  nowhere." 

At  that  moment  the  orchestra  struck  up 
a  military  march  with  so  much  energy  that 
further  conversation  was  impossible.  Near 
them  was  an  awkward-looking  young  fellow, 
with  shoulders  too  broad  for  his  height,  and 
a  general  look  of  chunkiness  and  dullness. 
Presently  he  rose  and  crossed  the  room,  and 
made  a  bow  to  his  chosen  partner  that  most 
courtiers  might  have  envied.  It  was  a  bow 
of  grace  and  dignity. 

"  Pretty  well  done !  "  said  Tom  Aldis 
aloud. 

Mr.   Gale  was  beaming  with  smiles,  and 


28  THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY. 

keeping  time  to  the  music  with  his  foot  and 
hand.  "  Nancy  done  it,"  he  announced 
proudly,  speaking  close  to  his  companion's 
ear.  "  That  boy  give  her  a  sight  o'  diffi 
culty  ;  he  used  to  want  to  learn,  but  'long  at 
the  first  he  'd  turn  red  as  fire  if  he  much  as 
met  a  sheep  in  a  pastur'.  The  last  time  I 
see  him  on  the  floor  I  went  home  an'  told 
her  he  done  as  well  as  any.  You  can  see 
for  yourself,  now  they  're  all  a-movin'." 

The  fresh  southerly  breeze  came  wafting 
into  the  hall  and  making  the  lamps  flare. 
If  Tom  turned  his  head,  he  could  see  the 
lights  out  in  the  bay,  of  vessels  that  had  put 
in  for  the  night.  Old  Mr.  Gale  was  not 
disposed  for  conversation  so  long  as  the 
march  lasted,  and  when  it  was  over  a  frisky- 
looking  middle-aged  person  accosted  Mr. 
Aldis  with  the  undimmed  friendliness  of 
their  youth  ;  and  he  took  her  out,  as  behoved 
him,  for  the  Lancers  quadrille.  From  her 
he  learned  that  Nancy  had  been  for  many 
years  a  helpless  invalid ;  and  when  their 
dance  was  over  he  returned  to  sit  out  the 
next  one  with  Mr.  Gale,  who  had  recovered 
a  little  by  this  time  from  the  excitement  of 
the  occasion,  and  was  eager  to  talk  about 
Nancy's  troubles,  but  still  more  about  her 


THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY.  29 

gifts  and  activities.  After  a  while  they  ad 
journed  to  the  hotel  piazza  in  company,  and 
the  old  man  grew  still  more  eloquent  over 
a  cigar.  He  had  not  changed  much  since 
Tom's  residence  in  the  family  ;  in  fact,  the 
flight  of  seventeen  years  had  made  but  little 
difference  in  his  durable  complexion  or  the 
tough  frame  which  had  been  early  seasoned 
by  wind  and  weather. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  he  said,  "  Nancy  has  had  it 
very  hard,  but  she  's  the  life  o'  the  neighbor 
hood  yet.  For  excellent  judgment  I  never 
see  her  equal.  Why,  once  the  board  o'  se- 
lec'men  took  trouble  to  meet  right  there  in 
her  room  off  the  kitchen,  when  they  had  to 
make  some  responsible  changes  in  layin'  out 
the  school  deestricts.  She  was  the  best 
teacher  they  ever  had,  a  master  good  teacher ; 
fitted  a  boy  for  Bowdoin  College  all  except 
his  Greek,  that  last  season  before  she  was 
laid  aside  from  sickness.  She  took  right 
holt  to  bear  it  the  best  she  could,  and  begun 
to  study  on  what  kind  o'  things  she  could  do. 
First  she  used  to  make  out  to  knit,  a-layin' 
there,  for  the  store,  but  her  hands  got  crip 
pled  up  with  the  rest  of  her  ;  't  is  the  wust 
kind  o'  rheumatics  there  is.  She  had  me 
go  round  to  the  neighborin'  schools  and  say 


30  THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY. 

that  if  any  of  the  child'n  was  backward  an' 
slow  with  their  lessons  to  send  'em  up  to 
her.  Now  an'  then  there  'd  be  one,  an'  at 
last  she  'd  see  to  some  class  there  was  n't 
time  for :  an'  here  year  before  last  the  town 
voted  her  fifty  dollars  a  year  for  her  ser 
vices.  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  " 

Aldis  manifested  his  admiration,  but  he 
could  not  help  wishing  that  he  had  not 
seemed  to  forget  so  pleasant  an  old  acquaint 
ance,  and  above  all  wished  that  he  had  not 
seemed  to  take  part  in  nature's  great  scheme 
to  defraud  her.  She  had  begun  life  with 
such  distinct  rights  and  possibilities. 

"  I  tell  you  she  was  the  most  cut  up  to 
have  to  stop  dancing"  said  Mr.  Gale  gayly, 
"  but  she  held  right  on  to  that,  same  as  to 
other  things.  '  I  can't  dance  myself,'  she 
says,  'so  I'm  goiii'  to  make  other  folks.' 
You  see  right  before  you  how  she 's  kep'  her 
word,  Mr.  Aldis  ?  What  always  pleased  her 
the  most,  from  a  child,  was  dancin'.  Folks 
talked  to  her  some  about  letting  her  mind 
rove  on  them  light  things  when  she  appeared 
to  be  on  a  dyin'  bed.  '  David,  he  danced 
afore  the  Lord,'  she  'd  tell  'em,  an'  her  eyes 
would  snap  so,  they  did  n't  like  to  say  no 
more. " 


THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY.  31 

Aldis  laughed,  the  old  man  himself  was  so 
cheerful. 

"  Well,  sir,  she  made  'em  keep  right  on 
with  the  old  dancin'-school  she  always  took 
such  part  in  (I  guess  't  was  goin',  wa'n't  it, 
that  fall  you  stopped  here  ?)  ;  but  she  sent 
out  for  all  the  child'n  she  could  get  and 
learnt  'em  their  manners.  She  can  see 
right  out  into  the  kitchen  from  where  she 
is,  an'  she  has  'em  make  their  bows  an'  take 
their  steps  till  they  get  'em  right  an'  feel  as 
good  as  anybody.  There  's  boys  an'  girls 
cornin'  an'  goin'  two  or  three  times  a  week 
in  the  afternoon.  It  don't  seem  to  be  no 
hardship :  there  ain't  no  such  good  company 
for  young  or  old  as  Nancy." 

"  She  '11  be  dreadful  glad  to  see  you,"  the 
proud  father  ended  his  praises.  "  Oh,  she  's 
never  forgot  that  good  time  she  had  up  to 
Boston.  You  an'  all  your  folks  couldn't 
have  treated  her  no  better,  an'  you  give  her 
her  heart's  desire,  you  did  so  !  She  's  never 
done  talkin'  about  that  pretty  dancin'-school 
with  all  them  lovely  little  child'n,  an'  every 
body  so  elegant  and  pretty  behaved.  She  'd 
always  wanted  to  see  such  a  lady  as  your 
aunt  was.  I  don't  know  but  she  's  right : 
she  always  maintains  that  when  folks  has 


32  THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY. 

good  manners  an'  good  hearts  the  world  is 
their  'n,  an'  she  was  goin'  to  do  everything 
she  could  to  keep  young  folks  from  feelin' 
hoggish  an'  left  out.  " 

Tom  walked  out  toward  the  farm  in  the 
bright  moonlight  with  Mr.  Gale,  and  prom 
ised  to  call  as  early  the  next  day  as  possible. 
They  followed  the  old  shore  path,  with  the 
sea  on  one  side  and  the  pointed  firs  on  the 
other,  and  parted  where  Nancy's  light  could 
be  seen  twinkling  on  the  hill. 


IV. 

It  was  not  very  cheerful  to  look  forward 
to  seeing  a  friend  of  one's  youth  crippled 
and  disabled ;  beside,  Tom  Aldis  always  felt 
a  nervous  dread  in  being  where  people  were 
ill  and  suffering.  He  thought  once  or  twice 
how  little  compassion  for  Nancy  these  coun 
try  neighbors  expressed.  Even  her  father 
seemed  inclined  to  boast  of  her,  rather  than 
to  pity  the  poor  life  that  was  so  hindered. 
Business  affairs  and  conference  were  ap 
pointed  for  that  afternoon,  so  that  by  the 
middle  of  the  morning  he  found  himself 
walking  up  the  yard  to  the  Gales'  side  door. 


THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY.  33 

There  was  nobody  within  call.  Mr.  Aldis 
tapped  once  or  twice,  and  then  hearing  a 
voice  he  went  through  the  narrow  unpainted 
entry  into  the  old  kitchen,  a  brown,  comfort 
able  place  which  he  well  remembered. 

"  Oh,  I  'm  so  glad  to  see  you,"  Nancy  was 
calling  from  her  little  bedroom  beyond. 
"  Come  in,  come  in  !  " 

He  passed  the  doorway,  and  stood  with 
his  hand  on  hers,  which  lay  helpless  on  the 
blue-and- white  coverlet.  Nancy's  young  eyes, 
untouched  by  years  or  pain  or  regret,  looked 
up  at  him  as  frankly  as  a  child's  from  the 
pillow. 

"  Mother  's  gone  down  .into  the  field  to 
pick  some  peas  for  dinner,"  she  said,  looking 
and  looking  at  Tom  and  smiling ;  but  he 
saw  at  last  that  tears  were  shining,  too,  and 
making  her  smile  all  the  brighter.  "  You 
see  now  why  I  could  n't  write,"  she  explained. 
"  I  kept  thinking  I  should.  I  did  n't  want 
anybody  else  to  thank  you  for  the  books. 
Now  sit  right  down,"  she  begged  her  guest. 
"Father  told  me  all  he  could  about  last 
night.  You  danced  with  Addie  Porter." 

"I  did,"  acknowledged  Tom  Aldis,  and 
they  both  laughed.  "  We  talked  about  old 
times  between  the  figures,  but  it  seemed  to 


34  THE   LIFE    OF   NANCY. 

me  that  I  remembered  them  better  than  she 
did." 

"  Addie  has  been  through  with  a  good  deal 
of  experience  since  then,"  explained  Nancy, 
with  a  twinkle  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  wish  I  could  have  danced  again  with 
you,"  said  Tom  bravely,  "but  I  saw  some 
scholars  that  did  you  credit." 

"  I  have  to  dance  by  proxy,"  said  Nancy ; 
and  to  this  there  was  no  reply. 

Tom  Aldis  sat  in  the  tiny  bedroom  with 
an  aching  heart.  Such  activity  and  definite- 
ness  of  mind,  such  power  of  loving  and  hun 
ger  for  life,  had  been  pent  and  prisoned  there 
so  many  years.  Nancy  had  made  what  she 
could  of  her  small  world  of  books.  There 
was  something  very  uncommon  in  her  look 
and  way  of  speaking ;  he  felt  like  a  boy  be 
side  her,  —  he  to  whom  the  world  had  given 
its  best  luxury  and  widest  opportunity.  As 
he  looked  out  of  the  small  window,  he  saw 
only  a  ledgy  pasture  where  sheep  were  stray 
ing  along  the  slopes  among  the  bayberry 
and  juniper  ;  beyond  were  some  balsam  firs 
and  a  glimpse  of  the  sea.  It  was  a  lovely 
bit  of  landscape,  but  it  lacked  figures,  and 
Nancy  was  born  to  be  a  teacher  and  a  lover 
of  her  kind.  She  had  only  lacked  opportu- 


THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY.  35 

nity,  but  she  was  equal  to  meeting  whatever 
should  come.  One  saw  it  in  her  face. 

"  You  don't  know  how  many  times  I  have 
thought  of  that  cold  day  in  Boston,"  said 
Nancy  from  her  pillows.  "  Your  aunt  was 
beautiful.  I  never  could  tell  you  about  the 
rest  of  the  day  with  her,  could  I  ?  Why,  it 
just  gave  me  a  measure  to  live  by.  I  saw 
right  off  how  small  some  things  were  that 
I  thought  were  big.  I  told  her  about  one 
or  two  things  down  here  in  Rodney  that 
troubled  me,  and  she  understood  all  about 
it.  '  If  we  mean  to  be  happy  and  useful,'  she 
said,  ;  the  only  way  is  to  be  self-forgetful. ' 
I  never  forgot  that !  " 

"  The  seed  fell  upon  good  ground,  did  n't 
it?"  said  Mr.  Aldis  with  a  smile.  He  had 
been  happy  enough  himself,  but  Nancy's  hap 
piness  appeared  in  that  moment  to  have  been 
of  another  sort.  He  could  not  help  thinking 
what  a  wonderful  perennial  quality  there  is 
in  friendship.  Because  it  had  once  flour 
ished  and  bloomed,  no  winter  snows  of  Maine 
could  bury  it,  no  summer  sunshine  of  for 
eign  life  could  wither  this  single  flower  of 
a  day  long  past.  The  years  vanished  like  a 
May  snowdrift,  and  because  they  had  known 
each  other  once  they  found  each  other  now. 


36  THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY. 

It  was  like  a  tough  little  sprig  of  gray  ever 
lasting  ;  the  New  England  edelweiss  that  al 
ways  keeps  a  white  flower  ready  to  blossom 
safe  and  warm  in  its  heart. 

They  entertained  each  other  delightfully 
that  late  summer  morning.  Tom  talked  of 
his  wife  and  children  as  he  had  seldom  talked 
of  them  to  any  one  before,  and  afterward  ex 
plained  the  land  interests  which  had  brought 
him  back  at  this  late  day  to  East  Rodney. 

"  I  came  down  meaning  to  sell  my  land  to 
a  speculator,"  he  said,  "or  to  a  real  estate 
agency  which  has  great  possessions  along  the 
coast ;  but  I  'm  very  doubtful  about  doing 
it,  now  that  I  have  seen  the  bay  again  and 
this  lovely  shore.  I  had  no  idea  that  it  was 
such  a  magnificent  piece  of  country.  I  was 
going  on  from  here  to  Mount  Desert,  with  a 
half  idea  of  buying  land  there.  Why  is  n't 
this  good  enough  that  I  own  already  ?  With 
a  yacht  or  a  good  steam  launch  we  should  n't 
be  so  far  away  from  places  along  the  coast, 
you  know.  What  if  I  were  to  build  a  house 
above  Sunday  Cove,  on  the  headland,  and  if 
we  should  be  neighbors !  I  have  a  friend 
who  might  build  another  house  on  the  point 
beyond ;  we  came  home  from  abroad  at 
about  the  same  time,  and  he  's  looking  for  a 


THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY.  37 

place  to  build,  this  side  of  Bar  Harbor." 
Tom  was  half  confiding  in  his  old  acquaint 
ance,  and  half  thinking  aloud.  "  These  real 
estate  brokers  can't  begin  to  give  a  man  the 
value  of  such  land  as  mine,"  he  added. 

"  It  would  be  excellent  business  to  come 
and  live  here  yourself,  if  you  want  to  bring 
up  the  value  of  the  property,"  said  Nancy 
gravely.  "  I  hear  there  are  a  good  many 
lots  staked  out  between  here  and  Portland, 
but  it  takes  more  than  that  to  start  things. 
There  can't  be  any  prettier  place  than  East 
Rodney,"  she  declared,  looking  affectionately 
out  of  her  little  north  window.  It  would  be 
a  great  blessing  to  city  people,  if  they  could 
come  and  have  our  good  Rodney  air." 

The  friends  talked  on  a  little  longer,  and 
with  great  cheerfulness  and  wealth  of  remi 
niscence.  Tom  began  to  understand  why 
nobody  seemed  to  pity  Nancy,  though  she  did 
at  last  speak  sadly,  and  make  confession  that 
she  felt  it  to  be  very  hard  because  she  never 
could  get  about  the  neighborhood  to  see  any 
of  the  old  and  sick  people.  Some  of  them 
were  lonesome,  and  lived  in  lonesome  places. 
"  I  try  to  send  word  to  them  sometimes,  if 
I  can't  do  any  more,"  said  Nancy.  "  We  're 
so  apt  to  forget  'em,  and  let  'em  feel  they 


38  THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY. 

aren't  useful.  I  can't  bear  to  see  an  old 
heart  begging  for  a  little  love.  I  do  some 
times  wish  I  could  manage  to  go  an'  try  to 
make  a  little  of  their  time  pass  pleasant." 

"Do  you  always  stay  just  here?"  asked 
Tom  with  sudden  compassion,  after  he  had 
stood  for  a  moment  looking  out  at  the  gray 
sheep  on  the  hillside. 

"  Oh,  sometimes  I  get  into  the  old  rock 
ing-chair,  and  father  pulls  me  out  into  the 
kitchen  when  I  'm  extra  well,"  said  Nancy 
proudly,  as  if  she  spoke  of  a  yachting  voy 
age  or  a  mountaineer's  exploits.  "  Once  a 
doctor  said  if  I  was  only  up  to  Boston  " 
her  voice  fell  a  little  with  a  touch  of  wistful- 
ness —  "perhaps  I  could  have  had  more  done, 
and  could  have  got  about  with  some  kind 
of  a  chair.  But  that  was  a  good  while  ago  : 
I  never  let  myself  worry  about  it.  I  am 
so  busy  right  here  that  I  don't  know  what 
would  happen  if  I  set  out  to  travel." 


v. 

A  year  later  the  East  Rodney  shore 
looked  as  green  as  ever,  and  the  untouched 
wall  of  firs  and  pines  faithfully  echoed  the 
steamer's  whistle.  In  the  twelve  months 


THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY.  39 

just  past  Mr.  Aldis  had  worked  wonders 
upon  his  long-neglected  estate,  and  now  was 
comfortably  at  housekeeping  on  the  Sunday 
Cove  headland.  Nancy  could  see  the  chim 
neys  and  a  gable  of  the  fine  establishment 
from  her  own  little  north  window,  and  the 
sheep  still  fed  undisturbed  on  the  slopes  that 
lay  between.  More  than  this,  there  were 
two  other  new  houses,  to  be  occupied  by 
Tom's  friends,  within  the  distance  of  a  mile 
or  two.  It  would  be  difficult  to  give  any 
idea  of  the  excitement  and  interest  of  East 
Rodney,  or  the  fine  effect  and  impulse  to 
the  local  market.  Tom's  wife  and  children 
were  most  affectionately  befriended  by  their 
neighbors  the  Gales,  and  with  their  coming 
in  midsummer  many  changes  for  the  better 
took  place  in  Nancy's  life,  and  made  it 
bright.  She  lost  no  time  in  starting  a  class, 
where  the  two  eldest  for  the  first  time  found 
study  a  pleasure,  while  little  Tom  was 
promptly  and  tenderly  taught  his  best  bow, 
and  made  to  mind  his  steps  with  such  in 
terest  and  satisfaction  that  he  who  had  once 
roared  aloud  in  public  at  the  infant  dan 
cing-class,  now  knew  both  confidence  and 
ambition.  There  was  already  a  well-worn 
little  footpath  between  the  old  Gale  house 


40  THE   LIFE    OF   NANCY. 

and  Sunday  Cove;  it  wound  in  and  out 
among  the  ledges  and  thickets,  and  over  the 
short  sheep-turf  of  the  knolls:  and  there 
was  a  scent  of  sweet-brier  here,  and  of  rasp 
berries  there,  and  of  the  salt  water  and  the 
pines,  and  the  juniper  and  bayberry,  all  the 
way. 

Nancy  herself  had  followed  that  path  in  a 
carrying-chair,  and  joy  was  in  her  heart  at 
every  step.  She  blessed  Tom  over  and  over 
again,  as  he  walked,  broad-shouldered  and 
strong,  between  the  forward  handles,  and 
turned  his  head  now  and  then  to  see  if  she 
liked  the  journey.  For  many  reasons,  she 
was  much  better  now  that  she  could  get  out 
into  the  sun.  The  bedroom  with  the  north 
window  was  apt  to  be  tenantless,  and  where- 
ever  Nancy  went  she  made  other  people 
wiser  and  happier,  and  more  interested  in 
life. 

On  the  day  when  she  went  in  state  to  visit 
the  new  house,  with  her  two  sober  carriers, 
and  a  gay  little  retinue  of  young  people 
frisking  alongside,  she  felt  happy  enough 
by  the  way ;  but  when  she  got  to  the  house 
itself,  and  had  been  carried  quite  round  it, 
and  was  at  last  set  down  in  the  wide  hall  to 
look  about,  she  gave  her  eyes  a  splendid 


THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY.  41 

liberty  of  enjoyment.  Mrs.  Aldis  disap 
peared  for  a  moment  to  give  directions  in 
her  guest's  behalf,  and  the  host  and  Nancy 
were  left  alone  together. 

"No,  I  don't  feel  a  bit  tired,"  said  the 
guest,  looking  pale  and  radiant.  "I  feel  as 
if  I  did  n't  know  how  to  be  grateful  enough. 
I  have  everything  in  the  world  to  make  me 
happy.  What  does  make  you  and  your  dear 
family  do  so  much?  " 

"It  means  a  great  deal  to  have  friends, 
doesn't  it?"  answered  Tom  in  a  tone  that 
thanked  her  warmly.  "I  often  wish  "  — 

He  could  not  finish  his  sentence,  for  he 
was  thinking  of  Nancy's  long  years,  and  the 
bond  of  friendship  that  absence  and  even 
forgetfulness  had  failed  to  break;  of  the 
curious  insistence  of  fate  which  made  him 
responsible  for  something  in  the  life  of 
Nancy  and  brought  him  back  to  her  neigh 
borhood.  It  was  a  moment  of  deep  thought ; 
he  even  forgot  Nancy  herself.  He  heard 
the  water  plashing  on  the  shore  below,  and 
felt  the  cool  sea  wind  that  blew  in  at  the 
door. 

Nancy  reached  out  her  bent  and  twisted 
hand  and  began  to  speak;  then  she  hesi- 


42  THE   LIFE    OF  NANCY. 

tated,  and  glanced  at  her  hand  again,  and 
looked  straight  at  him  with  shining  eyes. 

"There   never   has   been   a   day  when  I 
haven't  thought  of  you,"  she  said. 


FAME'S   LITTLE   DAY. 


NOBODY  ever  knew,  except  himself,  what 
made  a  foolish  young  newspaper  reporter, 
who  happened  into  a  small  old-fashioned 
hotel  in  New  York,  observe  Mr.  Abel  Pink- 
ham  with  deep  interest,  listen  to  his  talk, 
ask  a  question  or  two  of  the  clerk,  and  then 
go  away  and  make  up  an  effective  personal 
paragraph  for  one  of  the  morning  papers. 
He  must  have  had  a  heart  full  of  fun,  this 
1  young  reporter,  and  something  honestly  rus 
tic  and  pleasing  must  have  struck  him  in  the 
guest's  demeanor,  for  there  was  a  flavor  in 
the  few  lines  he  wrote  that  made  some  of  his 
fellows  seize  upon  the  little  paragraph,  and 
copy  it,  and  add  to  it,  and  keep  it  moving. 
Nobody  knows  what  starts  such  a  thing  in 
journalism,  or  keeps  it  alive  after  it  is 
started,  but  on  a  certain  Thursday  morning 
the  fact  was  made  known  to  the  world  that 
among  the  notabilities  then  in  the  city,  Abel 
Pinkham,  Esquire,  a  distinguished  citizen 


44  FAME'S   LITTLE   DAY. 

of  Wetherford,  Vermont,  was  visiting  New 
York  on  important  affairs  connected  with 
the  maple-sugar  industry  of  his  native  State. 
Mr.  Pinkham  had  expected  to  keep  his  visit 
unannounced,  but  it  was  likely  to  occasion 
much  interest  in  business  and  civic  circles. 
This  was  something  like  the  way  that  the 
paragraph  started ;  but  here  and  there  a  kin 
dred  spirit  of  the  original  journalist  caught 
it  up  and  added  discreet  lines  about  Mr. 
Pinkham 's  probable  stay  in  town,  his  occu 
pation  of  an  apartment  on  the  fourth  floor 
of  the  Ethan  Allen  Hotel,  and  other  cir 
cumstances  so  uninteresting  to  the  reading 
public  in  general  that  presently  in  the  next 
evening  edition,  one  city  editor  after  an 
other  threw  out  the  item,  and  the  young  jour 
nalists,  having  had  their  day  of  pleasure, 
passed  on  to  other  things. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pinkham  had  set  forth 
from  home  with  many  forebodings,  in  spite 
of  having  talked  all  winter  about  taking  this 
journey  as  soon  as  the  spring  opened.  They 
would  have  caught  at  any  reasonable  excuse 
for  giving  it  up  altogether,  because  when 
the  time  arrived  it  seemed  so  much  easier 
to  stay  at  home.  Mrs.  Abel  Pinkham  had 
never  seen  New  York ;  her  husband  himself 


FAME'S   LITTLE   DAY.  45 

had  not  been  to  the  city  for  a  great  many 
years;  in  fact,  his  reminiscences  of  the  for 
mer  visit  were  not  altogether  pleasant,  since 
he  had  foolishly  fallen  into  many  snares,  and 
been  much  gulled  in  his  character  of  honest 
young  countryman.  There  was  a  tarnished 
and  worthless  counterfeit  of  a  large  gold 
watch  still  concealed  between  the  outer 
boarding  and  inner  lath  and  plaster  of  the 
lean-to  bedroom  which  Mr.  Abel  Pinkham 
had  occupied  as  a  bachelor  ;  it  was  not 
the  only  witness  of  his  being  taken  in  by 
city  sharpers,  and  he  had  winced  ever  since 
at  the  thought  of  their  wiles.  But  he  was 
now  a  man  of  sixty,  well-to-do,  and  of  au 
thority  in  town  affairs ;  his  children  were  all 
well  married  and  settled  in  homes  of  their 
own,  except  a  widowed  daughter,  who  lived 
at  home  with  her  young  son,  and  was  her 
mother's  lieutenant  in  household  affairs. 

The  boy  was  almost  grown,  and  at  this 
season,  when  the  maple  sugar  was  all  made 
and  shipped,  and  it  was  still  too  early  for 
spring  work  on  the  land,  Mr.  Pinkham  could 
leave  home  as  well  as  not,  and  here  he  was 
in  New  York,  feeling  himself  to  be  a 
stranger  and  foreigner  to  city  ways.  If  it 
had  not  been  for  that  desire  to  appear  well 


46  FAME'S   LITTLE    DAY. 

in  his  wife's  eyes,  which  had  buoyed  him 
over  the  bar  of  many  difficulties,  he  could 
have  found  it  in  his  heart  to  take  the  next 
train  back  to  Wetherford,  Vermont,  to  be 
there  rid  of  his  best  clothes  and  the  stiff  rim 
of  his  heavy  felt  hat.  He  could  not  let  his 
wife  discover  that  the  noise  and  confusion  of 
Broadway  had  the  least  power  to  make  him 
flinch :  he  cared  no  more  for  it  than  for  the 
woods  in  snow-time.  He  was  as  good  as 
anybody,  and  she  was  better.  They  owed 
nobody  a  cent ;  and  they  had  come  on  pur 
pose  to  see  the  city  of  New  York. 

They  were  sitting  at  the  breakfast-table 
in  the  Ethan  Allen  Hotel,  having  arrived 
at  nightfall  the  day  before.  Mrs.  Pinkham 
looked  a  little  pale  about  the  mouth.  She 
had  been  kept  awake  nearly  all  night  by  the 
noise,  and  had  enjoyed  but  little  the  even 
ing  she  had  spent  in  the  stuffy  parlor  of  the 
hotel,  looking  down  out  of  the  window  at 
what  seemed  to  her  but  garish  scenes,  and 
keeping  a  reproachful  and  suspicious  eye 
upon  some  unpleasantly  noisy  young  women 
of  forward  behavior  who  were  her  only 
companions.  Abel  himself  was  by  no  means 
so  poorly  entertained  in  the  hotel  office  and 
smoking-room.  He  felt  much  more  at  home 


FAME'S    LITTLE   DAY.  47 

than  she  did,  being  better  used  to  meeting 
strange  men  than  she  was  to  strange  women, 
and  he  found  two  or  three  companions  who 
had  seen  more  than  he  of  New  York  life. 
It  was  there,  indeed,  that  the  young  reporter 
found  him,  hearty  and  country-fed,  and 
loved  the  appearance  of  his  best  clothes,  and 
the  way  Mr.  Abel  Pinkham  brushed  his  hair, 
and  loved  the  way  that  he  spoke  in  a  loud 
and  manful  voice  the  belief  and  experience 
of  his  honest  heart. 

In  the  morning  at  breakfast-time  the  Pink- 
hams  were  depressed.  They  missed  their 
good  bed  at  home ;  they  were  troubled  by 
the  roar  and  noise  of  the  streets  that  hardly 
stopped  over  night  before  it  began  again 
in  the  morning.  The  waiter  did  not  put 
what  mind  he  may  have  had  to  the  business 
of  serving  them ;  and  Mrs.  Abel  Pinkham, 
whose  cooking  was  the  triumph  of  parish 
festivals  at  home,  had  her  own  opinion  about 
the  beefsteak.  She  was  a  woman  of  imagi 
nation,  and  now  that  she  was  fairly  here, 
spectacles  and  all,  it  really  pained  her  to  find 
that  the  New  York  of  her  dreams,  the  me 
tropolis  of  dignity  and  distinction,  of  wealth 
and  elegance,  did  not  seem  to  exist.  These 
poor  streets,  these  unlovely  people,  were  the 


48  FAME'S   LITTLE   DAY. 

end  of  a  great  illusion.  They  did  not  like 
to  meet  each  other's  eyes,  this  worthy  pair. 
The  man  began  to  put  on  an  unbecoming  air 
of  assertion,  and  Mrs.  Pinkham's  face  was 
full  of  lofty  protest. 

"My  gracious  me,  Mary  Ann!  I  am 
glad  I  happened  to  get  the  '  Tribune  '  this 
mornin',"  said  Mr.  Pinkham,  with  sudden 
excitement.  "Just  you  look  here!  I  'd  like 
well  to  know  how  they  found  out  about  our 
comin' !  "  and  he  handed  the  paper  to  his 
wife  across  the  table.  "  There  —  there  't  is ; 
right  by  my  thumb,"  he  insisted.  "Can't 
you  see  it?  "  and  he  smiled  like  a  boy  as  she 
finally  brought  her  large  spectacles  to  bear 
upon  the  important  paragraph. 

"I  guess  they  think  somethin'  of  us,  if 
you  don't  think  much  o'  them,"  continued 
Mr.  Pinkham,  grandly.  "Oh,  they  know 
how  to  keep  the  run  o'  folks  who  are  some 
body  to  home  I  Draper  and  Fitch  knew  we 
was  comin'  this  week :  you  know  I  sent  word 
I  was  comin'  to  settle  with  them  myself. 
I  suppose  they  send  folks  round  to  the 
hotels,  these  newspapers,  but  I  should  n't 
thought  there  'd  been  time.  Anyway,  they '  ve 
thought  'twas  worth  while  to  put  us  in!  " 

Mrs.  Pinkham  did  not  take  the  trouble  to 


FAME'S   LITTLE   DAY.  49 

make  a  mystery  out  of  the  unexpected  pleas 
ure.  "I  want  to  cut  it  out  an'  send  it  right 
up  home  to  daughter  Sarah,"  she  said,  beam 
ing  with  pride,  and  looking  at  the  printed 
names  as  if  they  were  flattering  photo 
graphs.  "I  think  'twas  most  too  strong  to 
say  we  was  among  the  notables.  But  there ! 
'tis  their  business  to  dress  up  things,  and 
they  have  to  print  somethin'  every  day.  I 
guess  I  shall  go  up  and  put  on  my  best 
dress,"  she  added,  inconsequently ;  "this 
one's  kind  of  dusty;  it  's  the  same  I  rode 
in." 

"Le'  me  see  that  paper  again,"  said  Mr. 
Pinkham  jealously.  "  I  did  n't  more  '11 
half  sense  it,  I  was  so  taken  aback.  Well, 
Mary  Ann,  you  did  n't  expect  you  was  goin' 
to  get  into  the  papers  when  you  came  away. 
4  Abel  Pinkham,  Esquire,  of  Wetherford, 
Vermont.9  It  looks  well,  don't  it?  But 
you  might  have  knocked  me  down  with  a 
feather  when  I  first  caught  sight  of  them 
words." 

"I  guess  I  shall  put  on  my  other  dress," 
said  Mrs.  Pinkham,  rising,  with  quite  a 
different  air  from  that  with  which  she  had 
sat  down  to  her  morning  meal.  "This  one 
looks  a  little  out  o'  style,  as  Sarah  said,  but 


50  FAME'S  LITTLE   DAY. 

when  I  got  up  this  mornin'  I  was  so  home 
sick  it  did  n't  seem  to  make  any  kind  o' 
difference.  I  expect  that  saucy  girl  last 
night  took  us  to  be  nobodies.  I  'd  like  to 
leave  the  paper  round  where  she  couldn't 
help  seein'  it." 

"Don't  take  any  notice  of  her,"  said 
Abel,  in  a  dignified  tone.  "If  she  can't  do 
what  you  want  an'  be  civil,  we  '11  go  some- 
wheres  else.  I  wish  I  'd  done  what  we 
talked  of  at  first  an'  gone  to  the  Astor 
House,  but  that  young  man  in  the  cars  told 
me  't  was  remote  from  the  things  we  should 
want  to  see.  The  Astor  House  was  the  top 
o'  everything  when  I  was  here  last,  but  I 
expected  to  find  some  changes.  I  want  you 
to  have  the  best  there  is,"  he  said,  smiling 
at  his  wife  as  if  they  were  just  making  their 
wedding  journey.  "Come,  let's  be  stir- 
rin' ;  't  is  long  past  eight  o'clock,"  and  he 
ushered  her  to  the  door,  newspaper  in  hand. 


[i. 


Later  that  day  the  guests  walked  up 
Broadway,  holding  themselves  erect,  and 
feeling  as  if  every  eye  was  upon  them. 
Abel  Pinkham  had  settled  with  his  corre- 


FAME'S   LITTLE   DAY.  51 

spondents  for  the  spring  consignments  of 
maple  sugar,  and  a  round  sum  in  bank  bills 
was  stowed  away  in  his  breast  pocket.  One 
of  the  partners  had  been  a  Wetherf  ord  boy, 
so  when  there  came  a  renewal  of  interest 
in  maple  sugar,  and  the  best  confectioners 
were  ready  to  do  it  honor,  the  finest  qual 
ity  being  at  a  large  premium,  this  partner 
remembered  that  there  never  was  any  sugar 
made  in  Wetherford  of  such  melting  and 
delicious  flavor  as  from  the  trees  on  the 
old  Pinkham  farm.  He  had  now  made  a 
good  bit  of  money  for  himself  on  this  pri 
vate  venture,  and  was  ready  that  morning 
to  pay  Mr.  Abel  Pinkham  cash  down,  and 
to  give  him  a  handsome  order  for  the  next 
season  for  all  he  could  make.  Mr.  Fitch 
was  also  generous  in  the  matter  of  such 
details  as  freight  and  packing;  he  was  im 
mensely  polite  and  kind  to  his  old  friends, 
and  begged  them  to  come  out  and  stay  with 
him  and  his  wife,  where  they  lived  now,  in 
a  not  far  distant  New  Jersey  town. 

"No,  no,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Pinkham 
promptly.  "My  wife  has  come  to  see  the 
city,  and  our  time  is  short.  Your  folks  '11 
be  up  this  summer,  won't  they?  We'll 
wait  an'  visit  then." 


52  FAME'S   LITTLE   DAY. 

"You  must  certainly  take  Mrs.  Pinkham 
up  to  the  Park,"  said  the  commission  mer 
chant.  "I  wish  I  had  time  to  show  you 
round  myself.  I  suppose  you  've  been  see 
ing  some  things  already,  haven't  you?  I 
noticed  your  arrival  in  the  '  Herald. ' ' 

"The  '  Tribune  '  it  was,"  said  Mr.  Pink- 
ham,  blushing  through  a  smile  and  looking 
round  at  his  wife. 

"  Oh  no ;  I  never  read  the  '  Tribune, '  ' 
said  Mr.  Fitch.  "There  was  quite  an  ex 
tended  notice  in  my  paper.  They  must 
have  put  you  and  Mrs.  Pinkham  into  the 
4  Herald  '  too."  And  so  the  friends  parted,' 
laughing.  "I  am  much  pleased  to  have  a 
call  from  such  distinguished  parties,"  said 
Mr.  Fitch,  by  way  of  final  farewell,  and  Mr. 
Pinkham  waved  his  hand  grandly  in  reply. 

"Let 's  get  the  « Herald,'  then,"  he  said, 
as  they  started  up  the  street.  "We  can  go 
an'  sit  over  in  that  little  square  that  we 
passed  as  we  came  along,  and  rest  an'  talk 
things  over  about  what  we  'd  better  do  this 
afternoon.  I  'in  tired  out  a-tr ampin'  and 
standin'.  I'd  rather  have  set  still  while 
we  were  there,  but  he  wanted  us  to  see  his 
store.  Done  very  well,  Joe  Fitch  has,  but 
't  ain't  a  business  I  should  like." 


FAME   LITTLE'S   DAY.  53 

There  was  a  lofty  look  and  sense  of  be 
havior  about  Mr.  Pinkham  of  Wetherford. 
You  might  have  thought  him  a  great  politi 
cian  as  he  marched  up  Broadway,  looking 
neither  to  right  hand  nor  left.  He  felt 
himself  to  be  a  person  of  great  responsi 
bilities. 

"I  begin  to  feel  sort  of  at  home  myself," 
said  his  wife,  who  always  had  a  certain  touch 
of  simple  dignity  about  her.  "When  we 
was  comin'  yesterday  New  York  seemed  to 
be  all  strange,  and  there  wasn't  nobody  ex- 
pectin '  us.  I  feel  now  just  as  if  I  'd  been 
here  before." 

They  were  now  on  the  edge  of  the  better- 
looking  part  of  the  town;  it  was  still  noisy 
and  crowded,  but  noisy  with  fine  carriages 
instead  of  drays,  and  crowded  with  well- 
dressed  people.  The  hours  for  shopping 
and  visiting  were  beginning,  and  more  than 
one  person  looked  with  appreciative  and 
friendly  eyes  at  the  comfortable  pleased- 
looking  elderly  man  and  woman  who  went 
their  easily  beguiled  and  loitering  way.  The 
pavement  peddlers  detained  them,  but  the 
cabmen  beckoned  them  in  vain ;  their  eyes 
were  busy  with  the  immediate  foreground. 
Mrs.  Pinkham  was  embarrassed  by  the  re- 


54  FAME'S    LITTLE   DAY. 

curring  reflection  of  herself  in  the  great 
windows. 

"I  wish  I  had  seen  about  a  new  bonnet 
before  we  came,"  she  lamented.  "They 
seem  to  be  havin'  on  some  o'  their  spring 
things." 

"Don't  you  worry,  Mary  Ann.  I  don't 
see  anybody  that  looks  any  better  than  you 
do,"  said  Abel,  with  boyish  and  reassuring 
pride. 

Mr.  Pinkham  had  now  bought  the  "  Her 
ald,"  and  also  the  "Sun,"  well  recommended 
by  an  able  newsboy,  and  presently  they 
crossed  over  from  that  corner  by  the  Fifth 
Avenue  Hotel  which  seems  like  the  very 
heart  of  New  York,  and  found  a  place  to 
sit  down  on  the  Square  —  an  empty  bench, 
where  they  could  sit  side  by  side  and  look 
the  papers  through,  reading  over  each  other's 
shoulder,  and  being  impatient  from  page  to 
page.  The  paragraph  was  indeed  repeated, 
with  trifling  additions.  Ederton  of  the 
"Sun"  had  followed  the  "Tribune"  man's 
lead,  and  fabricated  a  brief  interview,  a 
marvel  of  art  and  discretion,  but  so  general 
in  its  allusions  that  it  could  create  no  sus 
picion;  it  almost  deceived  Mr.  Pinkham 
himself,  so  that  he  found  unaffected  pleasure 


FAME'S   LITTLE   DAY.  55 

in  the  fictitious  occasion,  and  felt  as  if  he 
had  easily  covered  himself  with  glory.  Ex 
cept  for  the  bare  fact  of  the  interview's 
being  imaginary,  there  was  no  discredit  to 
be  cast  upon  Mr.  Abel  Pinkham's  having 
said  that  he  thought  the  country  near  Weth- 
erford  looked  well  for  the  time  of  year,  and 
promised  a  fair  hay  crop,  and  that  his  in 
come  was  augmented  one  half  to  three  fifths 
by  his  belief  in  the  future  of  maple  sugar. 
It  was  likely  to  be  the  great  coming  crop 
of  the  Green  Mountain  State.  Ederton 
suggested  that  there  was  talk  of  Mr.  Pink- 
ham's  presence  in  the  matter  of  a  great 
maple  -  sugar  trust,  in  which  much  of  the 
capital  of  Wall  Street  would  be  involved. 

"How  they  do  hatch  up  these  things, 
don't  they?"  said  the  worthy  man  at  this 
point.  "Well,  it  all  sounds  well,  Mary 
Ann." 

"It  says  here  that  you  are  a  very  person 
able  man,"  smiled  his  wife,  "and  have  filled 
some  of  the  most  responsible  town  offices  " 
(this  was  the  turn  taken  by  Goffey  of  the 
"Herald").  "Oh,  and  that  you  are  going 
to  attend  the  performance  at  Barnum's  this 
evening,  and  occupy  reserved  seats.  Why, 
I  did  n't  know  —  who  have  you  told  about 


56  FAME'S  LITTLE   DAY. 

that?  —  who  was  you  talkin'  to  last  night, 
Abel?  " 

"I  never  spoke  o'  goin'  to  Barnum's  to 
any  livin'  soul,"  insisted  Abel,  flushing.  "I 
only  thought  of  it  two  or  three  times  to 
myself  that  perhaps  I  might  go  an'  take 
you.  Now  that  is  singular;  perhaps  they 
put  that  in  just  to  advertise  the  show." 

"Ain't  it  a  kind  of  a  low  place  for  folks 
like  us  to  be  seen  in?  "  suggested  Mrs.  Pink- 
ham  timidly.  "People  seem  to  be  pay  in' 
us  all  this  attention,  an'  I  don't  know 's 
't  would  be  dignified  for  us  to  go  to  one  o' 
them  circus  places." 

"I  don't  care;  we  shan't  live  but  once. 
I  ain't  comin'  to  New  York  an'  confine  my 
self  to  evenin'  meetin's,"  answered  Abel, 
throwing  away  discretion  and  morality  to 
gether.  "I  tell  you  I'm  goin'  to  spend 
this  sugar-money  just  as  we  've  a  mind  to. 
You  've  worked  hard,  an'  counted  a  good 
while  on  comin',  and  so'vel:  an'  I  ain't 
goin'  to  mince  my  steps  an'  pinch  an'  screw 
for  nobody.  I  'm  goin'  to  hire  one  o'  them 
hacks  an'  ride  up  to  the  Park." 

"Joe  Fitch  said  we  could  go  right  up  in 
one  o'  the  elevated  railroads  for  five  cents, 
an'  return  when  we  was  ready,"  protested 


FAME'S   LITTLE   DAY.  57 

Mary  Ann,  who  had  a  thriftier  inclination 
than  her  husband;  but  Mr.  Pinkham  was 
not  to  be  let  or  hindered,  and  they  presently 
found  themselves  going  up  Fifth  Avenue  in 
a  somewhat  battered  open  landau.  The 
spring  sun  shone  upon  them,  and  the  spring 
breeze  fluttered  the  black  ostrich  tip  on 
Mrs.  Pinkham 's  durable  winter  bonnet,  and 
brought  the  pretty  color  to  her  faded  cheeks. 

"There!  this  is  something  like.  Such 
people  as  we  are  can't  go  meechin'  round; 
it  ain't  expected.  Don't  it  pay  for  a  lot  o' 
hard  work?"  said  Abel;  and  his  wife  gave 
him  a  pleased  look  for  her  only  answer. 
They  were  both  thinking  of  their  gray  farm 
house  high  on  a  long  western  slope,  with  the 
afternoon  sun  full  in  its  face,  the  old  red 
barn,  the  pasture,  the  shaggy  woods  that 
stretched  far  up  the  mountain-side. 

"I  wish  Sarah  an'  little  Abel  was  here  to 
see  us  ride  by,"  said  Mary  Ann  Pinkham, 
presently.  "I  can't  seem  to  wait  to  have 
'em  get  that  newspaper.  I  'm  so  glad  we 
sent  it  right  off  before  we  started  this  morn- 
in'.  If  Abel  goes  to  the  post-office  comin' 
from  school,  as  he  always  does,  they  '11  have 
it  to  read  to-morrow  before  supper-time." 


58  FAME'S   LITTLE   DAY. 

III. 

This  happy  day  in  two  plain  lives  ended, 
as  might  have  been  expected,  with  the  great 
Barnum  show.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pinkham 
found  themselves  in  possession  of  countless 
advertising  cards  and  circulars  next  morn 
ing,  and  these  added  somewhat  to  their  sense 
of  responsibility.  Mrs.  Pinkham  became 
afraid  that  the  hotel-keeper  would  charge 
them  double.  "We  've  got  to  pay  for  it 
some  way;  there.  I  don't  know  but  I'm 
more 'n  willin',"  said  the  good  soul.  "I 
never  did  have  such  a  splendid  time  in  all 
my  life.  Fiiidin'  you  so  respected  'way  off 
here  is  the  best  of  anything;  an'  then  seein' 
them  dear  little  babies  in  their  nice  car 
riages,  all  along  the  streets  and  up  to  the 
Central  Park!  I  never  shall  forget  them 
beautiful  little  creatur's.  And  then  the 
houses,  an'  the  bosses,  an'  the  store  win 
dows,  an'  all  the  rest  of  it!  Well,  I  can't 
make  my  country  pitcher  hold  no  more,  an' 
I  want  to  get  home  an'  think  it  over,  goiii' 
about  my  housework." 

They  were  just  entering  the  door  of  the 
Ethan  Allen  Hotel  for  the  last  time,  when  a 
young  man  met  them  and  bowed  cordially. 


FAME'S    LITTLE   DAY.  59 

He  was  the  original  reporter  of  their  arrival, 
but  they  did  not  know  it,  and  the  impulse 
was  strong  within  him  to  formally  invite 
Mr.  Pinkham  to  make  an  address  before  the 
members  of  the  Produce  Exchange  on  the 
following  morning ;  but  he  had  been  a  coun 
try  boy  himself,  and  their  look  of  serious 
ness  and  self-consciousness  appealed  to  him 
unexpectedly.  He  wondered  what  effect 
this  great  experience  would  have  upon  their 
after-life.  The  best  fun,  after  all,  would 
be  to  send  marked  copies  of  his  paper  and 
Eder ton's  to  all  the  weekly  newspapers  in 
that  part  of  Vermont.  He  saw  before  him 
the  evidence  of  their  happy  increase  of  self- 
respect,  and  he  would  make  all  their  neigh 
borhood  agree  to  do  them  honor.  Such  is 
the  dominion  of  the  press. 

"  Who  was  that  young  man  ?  —  he  kind  of 
bowed  to  you,"  asked  the  lady  from  Wether- 
ford,  after  the  journalist  had  meekly  passed ; 
but  Abel  Pinkham,  Esquire,  could  only  tell 
her  that  he  looked  like  a  young  fellow  who 
was  sitting  in  the  office  the  evening  that 
they  came  to  the  hotel.  The  reporter  did 
not  seem  to  these  distinguished  persons  to 
be  a  young  man  of  any  consequence. 


A  WAR  DEBT. 


THERE  was  a  tinge  of  autumn  color  on 
even  the  English  elms  as  Tom  Burton  walked 
slowly  up  Beacon  Street.  He  was  wonder 
ing  all  the  way  what  he  had  better  do  with 
himself ;  it  was  far  too  early  to  settle  down 
in  Boston  for  the  winter,  but  his  grand 
mother  kept  to  her  old  date  for  moving  up 
to  town,  and  here  they  were.  As  yet  no 
body  thought  of  braving  the  country  weather 
long  after  October  came  in,  and  most  coun 
try  houses  were  poorly  equipped  with  fire 
places,  or  even  furnaces :  this  was  some  years 
ago,  and  not  the  very  last  autumn  that  ever 
was. 

There  was  likely  to  be  a  long  stretch  of 
good  weather,  a  month  at  least,  if  one  took 
the  trouble  to  go  a  little  way  to  the  south 
ward.  Tom  Burton  quickened  his  steps  a 
little,  and  began  to  think  definitely  of  his 
guns,  while  a  sudden  resolve  took  shape  in 
his  mind.  Just  then  he  reached  the  door- 


A    WAR    DEBT.  61 

steps  of  his  grandmother's  fine  old-fashioned 
house,  being  himself  the  fourth  Thomas 
Burton  that  the  shining  brass  cloor-plate 
had  represented.  His  old  grandmother  was 
the  only  near  relative  he  had  in  the  world ; 
she  was  growing  older  and  more  dependent 
upon  him  every  day.  That  summer  he  had 
returned  from  a  long  wandering  absence  of 
three  years,  and  the  vigorous  elderly  woman 
whom  he  had  left,  busy  and  self-reliant,  had 
sadly  changed  in  the  mean  time;  age  had 
begun  to  strike  telling  blows  at  her  strength 
and  spirits.  Tom  had  no  idea  of  leaving  her 
again  for  the  long  journeys  which  had  be 
come  the  delightful  habit  of  his  life;  but 
there  was  no  reason  why  he  should  not  take 
a  fortnight's  holiday  now  and  then,  particu 
larly  now. 

"Has  Mrs.  Burton  come  down  yet,  Den 
nis?  Is  there  any  one  with  her?"  asked 
Tom,  as  he  entered. 

"There  is  not,  sir.  Mrs.  Burton  is  in  the 
drawing-room,"  answered  Dennis  precisely. 
"The  tea  is  just  going  up;  I  think  she  was 
waiting  for  you."  And  Tom  ran  upstairs 
like  a  schoolboy,  and  then  walked  discreetly 
into  the  drawing-room.  His  grandmother 
gave  no  sign  of  having  expected  him,  but  she 


62  A    WAR   DEBT. 

always  liked  company  at  that  hour  of  the 
day :  there  had  come  to  be  too  many  ghosts 
in  the  empty  chairs. 

"Can  I  have  two  cups?"  demanded  the 
grandson,  cheerfully.  "I  don't  know  when 
I  have  had  such  a  walk!  "  and  they  began  a 
gay  gossiping  hour  together,  and  parted  for 
a  short  season  afterward,  only  to  meet  again 
at  dinner,  with  a  warm  sense  of  pleasure 
in  each  other's  company.  The  young  man 
always  insisted  that  his  grandmother  was 
the  most  charming  woman  in  the  world,  and 
it  can  be  imagined  what  the  grandmother 
thought  of  Tom.  She  was  only  severe  with 
him  because  he  had  given  no  signs  of  wish 
ing  to  marry,  but  she  was  tolerant  of  all  de 
lay,  so  long  as  she  could  now  and  then  keep 
the  subject  fresh  in  his  mind.  It  was  not  a 
moment  to  speak  again  of  the  great  question 
that  afternoon,  and  she  had  sat  and  listened 
to  his  talk  of  people  and  things,  a  little  plain 
tive  and  pale,  but  very  handsome,  behind  the 
tea-table. 

IT. 

At  dinner,  after  Dennis  had  given  Tom 
his  cup  of  coffee  and  cigars,  and  disappeared 
with  an  accustomed  air  of  thoughtfully  leav- 


A    WAR   DEBT.  63 

ing  the  family  alone  for  a  private  interview, 
Mrs.  Burton,  who  sometimes  lingered  if  she 
felt  like  talking,  and  sometimes  went  away 
to  the  drawing-room  to  take  a  brief  nap  be 
fore  she  began  her  evening  book,  and  before 
Tom  joined  her  for  a  few  minutes  to  say 
good-night  if  he  were  going  out,  —  Mrs. 
Burton  left  her  chair  more  hurriedly  than 
usual.  Tom  meant  to  be  at  home  that  even 
ing,  and  was  all  ready  to  speak  of  his  plan 
for  some  Southern  shooting,  and  he  felt  a 
sudden  sense  of  disappointment. 

"Don't  go  away,"  he  said,  looking  up  as 
she  passed.  "Is  this  a  bad  cigar?" 

"No,  no,  my  dear,"  said  the  old  lady, 
hurrying  across  the  room  in  an  excited,  un 
usual  sort  of  way.  "I  wish  to  show  you 
something  while  we  are  by  ourselves."  And 
she  stooped  to  unlock  a  little  cupboard  in  the 
great  sideboard,  and  fumbled  in  the  depths 
there,  upsetting  and  clanking  among  some 
pieces  of  silver.  Tom  joined  her  with  a 
pair  of  candles,  but  it  was  some  moments 
before  she  could  find  what  she  wanted. 
Mrs.  Burton  appeared  to  be  in  a  hurry, 
which  almost  never  happened,  and  in  try 
ing  to  help  her  Tom  dropped  much  wax 
unheeded  at  her  side. 


64  A    WAR   DEBT. 

"Here  it  is  at  last,"  she  said,  and  went 
back  to  her  seat  at  the  table.  "I  ought  to 
tell  you  the  stories  of  some  old  silver  that 
I  keep  in  that  cupboard;  if  I  were  to  die, 
nobody  would  know  anything  about  them." 

"Do  you  mean  the  old  French  spoons,  and 
the  prince's  porringer,  and  those  things?" 
asked  Tom,  showing  the  most  lively  interest. 
But  his  grandmother  was  busy  unfastening 
the  strings  of  a  little  bag,  and  shook  her 
head  absently  in  answer  to  his  question. 
She  took  out  and  handed  to  him  a  quaint 
old  silver  cup  with  two  handles,  that  he 
could  not  remember  ever  to  have  seen. 

"What  a  charming  old  bit!"  said  he, 
turning  it  about.  "Where  in  the  world  did 
it  come  from?  English,  of  course;  and  it 
looks  like  a  loving-cup.  A  copy  of  some 
old  Oxford  thing,  perhaps ;  only  they  did  n't 
copy  much  then.  I  should  think  it  had  been 
made  for  a  child."  Tom  turned  it  round 
and  round  and  drew  the  candles  toward 
him.  "Here  's  an  inscription,  too,  but 
very  much  worn." 

"Put  it  down  a  minute,"  said  Mrs.  Bur 
ton  impatiently.  "Every  time  I  have 
thought  of  it  I  have  been  more  and  more 
ashamed  to  have  it  in  the  house.  People 


A    WAR   DEBT.  65 

weren't  so  shocked  by  such  things  at  first; 
they  would  only  be  sentimental  about  the 
ruined  homes,  and  say  that,  'after  all,  it  was 
the  fortune  of  war.'  That  cup  was  stolen." 

"But  who  stole  it?"  inquired  Tom,  with 
deep  interest. 

"Your  father  brought  it  here,"  said  Mrs. 
Burton,  with  great  spirit,  and  even  a  tone 
of  reproach.  "My  son,  Tom  Burton,  your 
father,  brought  it  home  from  the  war.  I 
think  his  plan  was  to  keep  it  safe  to  send 
back  to  the  owners.  But  he  left  it  with 
your  mother  when  he  was  ordered  suddenly 
to  the  front ;  he  was  only  at  home  four  days, 
and  the  day  after  he  got  back  to  camp  was 
the  day  he  was  killed,  poor  boy  " 

"I  remember  something  about  it  now," 
Tom  hastened  to  say.  "I  remember  my 
mother's  talking  about  the  breaking  up  of 
Southern  homes,  and  all  that;  she  never 
believed  it  until  she  saw  the  cup,  and  I 
thought  it  was  awfully  silly.  I  was  at  the 
age  when  I  could  have  blown  our  own  house 
to  pieces  just  for  the  sake  of  the  racket." 

"And  that  terrible  year  your  grandfather's 
and  your  mother's  death  followed,  and  I  was 
left  alone  with  you  —  two  of  us  out  of  the 
five  that  had  made  my  home  "  — 


66  A    WAR   DEBT. 

"I  should  say  one  and  a  half,"  insisted 
Tom,  with  some  effort.  "What  a  boy  I 
was  for  a  grandson!  Thank  Heaven,  there 
comes  a  time  when  we  are  all  the  same  age ! 
We  are  jolly  together  now,  are  n't  we  ? 
Come,  dear  old  lady,  don't  let 's  think  too 
much  of  what  's  gone  by  ;  "  and  he  went 
round  the  table  and  gave  her  a  kiss,  and 
stood  there  where  she  need  not  look  him  in 
the  face,  holding  her  dear  thin  hand  as  long 
as  ever  she  liked. 

"  I  want  you  to  take  that  silver  cup  back, 
Tom,"  she  said  presently,  in  her  usual  tone. 
"Go  back  and  finish  your  coffee."  She 
had  seldom  broken  down  like  this.  Mrs. 
Burton  had  been  self-possessed,  even  to  ap 
parent  coldness,  in  earlier  life. 

"How  in  the  world  am  I  going  to  take  it 
back?"  asked  Tom,  most  businesslike  and 
calm.  "Do  you  really  know  just  where  it 
came  from?  And  then  it  was  several  years 
ago." 

"Your  grandfather  knew;  they  were  Vir 
ginia  people,  of  course,  and  happened  to  be 
old  friends;  one  of  the  younger  men  was 
his  own  classmate.  He  knew  the  crest  and 
motto  at  once,  but  there  were  two  or  three 
branches  of  the  family,  none  of  them,  so  far 


A    WAR   DEBT.  67 

as  he  knew,  living  anywhere  near  where 
your  father  was  in  camp.  Poor  Tom  said 
that  there  was  a  beautiful  old  house  sacked 
and  burnt,  and  everything  scattered  that 
was  saved.  He  happened  to  hear  a  soldier 
from  another  regiment  talking  about  it,  and 
saw  him  tossing  this  cup  about,  and  bought 
it  from  him  with  all  the  money  he  happened 
to  have  in  his  pockets." 

"Then  he  didn't  really  steal  it  himself! " 
exclaimed  Tom,  laughing  a  little,  and  with 
a  sense  of  relief. 

"No,  no,  Tom!"  said  Mrs.  Burton  im 
patiently.  "Only  you  see  that  it  really  is 
a  stolen  thing,  and  I  have  had  it  all  this  time 
under  my  roof.  For  a  long  time  it  was 
packed  away  with  your  father's  war  relics, 
those  things  that  I  couldn't  bear  to  see. 
And  then  I  would  think  of  it  only  at  night 
after  I  had  once  seen  it,  and  forget  to  ask 
any  one  else  while  you  were  away,  or  wait 
for  you  to  come.  Oh,  I  have  no  excuse. 
I  have  been  very  careless,  but  here  it  has 
been  all  the  time.  I  wish  you  would  find 
out  about  the  people;  there  must  be  some 
one  belonging  to  them  —  some  friend,  per 
haps,  to  whom  we  could  give  it.  This  is 
one  of  the  things  that  I  wish  to  have  done, 


68  A    WAR    DEBT. 

and  to  forget.  Just  take  it  back,  or  write 
some  letters  first:  you  will  know  what  to 
do.  I  should  like  to  have  the  people  under 
stand." 

"I  '11  see  about  it  at  once,"  said  Tom, 
with  great  zest.  "I  believe  you  couldn't 
have  spoken  at  a  better  time.  I  have  been 
thinking  of  going  down  to  Virginia  this 
very  week.  I  hear  that  they  are  in  a  hurry 
with  fitting  out  that  new  scientific  expedi 
tion  in  Washington  that  I  declined  to  join, 
and  they  want  me  to  come  on  and  talk  over 
things  before  they  are  off.  One  of  the  men 
is  a  Virginian,  an  awfully  good  fellow;  and 
then  there  's  Clendennin,  my  old  chum, 
who  's  in  Washington,  too,  just  now;  they  '11 
give  me  my  directions ;  they  know  all  Vir 
ginia  between  them.  I  '11  take  the  cup 
along,  and  run  down  from  Washington  for  a 
few  days,  and  perhaps  get  some  shooting." 

Tom's  face  was  shining  with  interest  and 
satisfaction ;  he  took  the  cup  and  again  held 
it  under  the  candle-light.  "How  pretty  this 
old  chasing  is  round  the  edge,  and  the  set  of 
the  little  handles !  Oh,  here  's  the  motto ! 
What  a  dear  old  thing,  and  enormously  old ! 
See  here,  under  the  crest,"  and  he  held  it 
toward  Mrs.  Burton  :  — 


A    WAR   DEBT.  69 

"  Je  vous  en  prie 
Bel-ami." 

Mrs.  Burton  glanced  at  it  with  indiffer 
ence.  "Yes,  it  is  charming,  as  you  say. 
But  I  only  wish  to  return  it  to  its  owners, 
Tom." 

"  Je  vous  en  prie 
Bel-ami." 

Tom  repeated  the  words  under  his  breath, 
and  looked  at  the  crest  carefully. 

"I  remember  that  your  grandfather  said 
it  belonged  to  the  Bellamys,"  said  his  grand 
mother.  "Of  course:  how  could  I  forget 
that?  I  have  never  looked  at  it  properly 
since  the  day  I  first  saw  it.  It  is  a  charm 
ing  motto  —  they  were  very  charming  and 
distinguished  people.  I  suppose  this  is  a 
pretty  way  of  saying  that  they  could  not  live 
without  their  friends.  I  beg  of  you,  Bel- 
ami  ;  —  it  is  a  quaint  fancy ;  one  might  turn 
it  in  two  or  three  pretty  ways." 

"Or  they  may  have  meant  that  they  only 
looked  to  themselves  for  what  they  wanted, 
Je  vous  en  prie  Bellamy  !  "  said  Tom  gal 
lantly.  "All  right;  I  think  that  I  shall 
start  to-morrow  or  next  day.  If  you  have 
no  special  plans,"  he  added. 

"Do  go,  my  dear;  you  may  get  some 
shooting,  as  you  say,"  said  Mrs.  Burton,  a 


70  A    WAR   DEBT. 

little  wistfully,  but  kindly  personifying 
Tom's  inclination. 

"You've  started  me  off  on  a  fine  ro 
mantic  adventure,"  said  the  young  man, 
smiling.  "Come;  my  cigar's  gone-  out, 
and  it  never  was  good  for  much;  let's  go 
in  and  try  the  cards,  and  talk  about  things ; 
perhaps  you  '11  think  of  something  more 
about  the  Bellamys.  You  said  that  my 
grandfather  had  a  classmate  " 

Mrs.  Burton  stopped  to  put  the  cup  into 
its  chamois  bag  again,  and  handed  it  sol 
emnly  to  Tom,  then  she  took  his  arm,  and 
dismissing  all  unpleasant  thoughts,  they  sat 
down  to  the  peaceful  game  of  cribbage  to 
while  away  the  time.  The  grandson  lent 
himself  gayly  to  pleasure-making,  and  they 
were  just  changing  the  cards  for  their  books, 
when  one  of  the  elder  friends  of  the  house 
appeared,  one  of  the  two  or  three  left  who 
called  Mrs.  Burton  Margaret,  and  was 
greeted  affectionately  as  Henry  in  return. 
This  guest  always  made  the  dear  lady  feel 
young;  he  himself  was  always  to  the  front 
of  things,  and  had  much  to  say.  It  was 
quite  forgotten  that  a  last  charge  had  been 
given  to  Tom,  or  that  the  past  had  been 
wept  over.  Presently,  the  late  evening 


A    WAR   DEBT.  71 

hours  being  always  her  best,  she  forgot  in 
eager  talk  that  she  had  any  grandson  at  all, 
and  Tom  slipped  away  with  his  book  to  his 
own  sitting-room  and  his  pipe.  He  took 
the  little  cup  out  of  its  bag  again,  and  set  it 
before  him,  and  began  to  lay  plans  for  a 
Southern  journey. 


in. 

The  Virginia  country  was  full  of  golden 
autumn  sunshine  and  blue  haze.  The  long 
hours  spent  on  a  slow-moving  train  were 
full  of  shocks  and  surprises  to  a  young  trav 
eler  who  knew  almost  every  civilized  country 
better  than  his  own.  The  lonely  look  of 
the  fields,  the  trees  shattered  by  war,  which 
had  not  yet  had  time  enough  to  muffle  their 
broken  tops  with  green;  the  negroes,  who 
crowded  on  board  the  train,  lawless,  and 
unequal  to  holding  their  liberty  with  steady 
hands,  looked  poor  and  less  respectable  than 
in  the  old  plantation  days  —  it  was  as  if 
the  long  discipline  of  their  former  state  had 
counted  for  nothing.  Tom  Burton  felt  him 
self  for  the  first  time  to  have  something 
of  a  statesman's  thoughts  and  schemes  as 
he  moralized  along  the  way.  Presently  he 


72  A    WAR   DEBT. 

noticed  with  deep  sympathy  a  lady  who 
came  down  the  crowded  car,  and  took  the 
seat  just  in  front  of  him.  She  carried  a 
magazine  under  her  arm  —  a  copy  of  "  Black- 
wood,"  which  was  presently  proved  to  bear 
the  date  of  1851,  and  to  be  open  at  an  arti 
cle  on  the  death  of  Wordsworth.  She  was 
the  first  lady  he  had  seen  that  day  —  there 
was  little  money  left  for  journeying  and 
pleasure  among  the  white  Virginians;  but 
two  or  three  stations  beyond  this  a  group  of 
young  English  men  and  women  stood  with 
the  gay  negroes  on  the  platform,  and  came 
into  the  train  with  cheerful  greetings  to  their 
friends.  It  seemed  as  if  England  had  be 
gun  to  settle  Virginia  all  over  again,  and 
their  clear,  lively  voices  had  no  foreign 
sound.  There  were  going  to  be  races  at 
some  court-house  town  in  the  neighborhood. 
Burton  was  a  great  lover  of  horses  himself, 
and  the  new  scenes  grew  more  and  more  in 
teresting.  In  one  of  the  gay  groups  was 
a  different  figure  from  any  of  the  fresh  - 
cheeked  young  wives  of  the  English  planters 
—  a  slender  girl,  pale  and  spirited,  with  a 
look  of  care  beyond  her  years.  She  was 
the  queen  of  her  little  company.  It  was  to 
her  that  every  one  looked  for  approval  and 


A    WAR   DEBT.  73 

sympathy  as  the  laugh  went  to  and  fro. 
There  was  something  so  high-bred  and  ele 
gant  in  her  bearing,  something  so  exquisitely 
sure  and  stately,  that  her  companions  were 
made  clumsy  and  rustic  in  their  looks  by 
contrast.  The  eager  talk  of  the  coming 
races,  of  the  untried  thoroughbreds,  the  win 
ners  and  losers  of  the  year  before,  made 
more  distinct  this  young  Virginia  lady's  own 
look  of  high-breeding,  and  emphasized  her 
advantage  of  race.  She  was  the  newer  and 
finer  Norman  among  Saxons.  She  alone 
seemed  to  have  that  inheritance  of  swiftness 
of  mind,  of  sureness  of  training.  It  was 
the  highest  type  of  English  civilization  re 
fined  still  further  by  long  growth  in  favoring 
soil.  Tom  Burton  read  her  unconscious  face 
as  if  it  were  a  romance ;  he  believed  that  one 
of  the  great  Virginia  houses  must  still  exist, 
and  that  she  was  its  young  mistress.  The. 
house's  fortune  was  no  doubt  gone;  the 
long-worn  and  carefully  mended  black  silk 
gown  that  followed  the  lines  of  her  lovely 
figure  told  plainly  enough  that  worldly  pros 
perity  was  a  thing  of  the  past.  But  what 
nature  could  give  of  its  best,  and  only  age 
and  death  could  take  away,  were  hers.  He 
watched  her  more  and  more ;  at  one  moment 


74  A     WAR   DEBT. 

she  glanced  up  suddenly  and  held  his  eyes 
with  hers  for  one  revealing  moment.  There 
was  no  surprise  in  the  look,  but  a  confession 
of  pathos,  a  recognition  of  sympathy,  which 
made  even  a  stranger  feel  that  he  had  the 
inmost  secret  of  her  heart. 


IV. 

The  next  day  our  hero,  having  hired  a 
capital  saddle-horse,  a  little  the  worse  for 
age,  was  finding  his  way  eastward  along  the 
sandy  roads.  The  country  was  full  of  color; 
the  sassafras  and  gum  trees  and  oaks  were 
all  ablaze  with  red  and  yellow.  Now  and 
then  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  sail  on  one  of 
the  wide  reaches  of  the  river  which  lay  to 
the  northward;  now  and  then  he  passed  a 
broken  gateway  or  the  ruins  of  a  cabin.  He 
carried  a  light  gun  before  him  across  the 
saddle,  and  a  game-bag  hung  slack  and 
empty  at  his  shoulder  except  for  a  single 
plump  partridge  in  one  corner,  which  had 
whirred  up  at  the  right  moment  out  of  a 
vine-covered  thicket.  Something  small  and 
heavy  in  his  coat  pocket  seemed  to  corre 
spond  to  the  bird,  and  once  or  twice  he  un 
consciously  lifted  it  in  the  hollow  of  his 


A    WAR   DEBT.  75 

hand.  The  day  itself,  and  a  sense  of  being 
on  the  road  to  fulfill  his  mission,  a  sense  of 
unending  leisure  and  satisfaction  under  that 
lovely  hazy  sky,  seemed  to  leave  110  place 
for  impatience  or  thought  of  other  things. 
He  rode  slowly  along,  with  his  eye  on  the 
roadside  coverts,  letting  the  horse  take  his 
own  gait,  except  when  a  ragged  negro  boy, 
on  an  unwilling,  heavy-footed  mule,  slyly  ap 
proached  and  struck  the  dallying  steed  from 
behind.  It  was  past  the  middle  of  the  Octo 
ber  afternoon. 

"'Mos'  thar  now,  Cun'l,"  said  the  boy  at 
last,  eagerly.  "See  them  busted  trees  pas' 
thar,  an'  chimblies?  You  tu'ii  down  nax' 
turn;  ride  smart  piece  yet,  an'  you  come 
right  front  of  ol'  Mars  Bell' my 's  house. 
See,  he  comin'  'long  de  road  now.  Yas, 
'tis  Mars  Bell'my  shore,  an'  's  gun." 

Tom  had  been  looking  across  the  neglected 
fields  with  compassion,  and  wondering  if 
such  a  plantation  could  ever  be  brought  back 
to  its  days  of  prosperity.  As  the  boy  spoke 
he  saw  the  tall  chimneys  in  the  distance,  and 
then,  a  little  way  before  him  in  the  shadow 
of  some  trees,  a  stately  figure  that  slowly 
approached.  He  hurriedly  dismounted, 
leading  his  horse  until  he  met  the  tall  old 


76  A    WAR   DEBT. 

man,  who  answered  liis  salutation  with  much 
dignity.  There  was  something  royal  and  re 
mote  from  ordinary  men  in  his  silence  after 
the  first  words  of  courteous  speech. 

"Yas,  sir;  that  's  Mars  Bell'my,  sir," 
whispered  the  boy  on  the  mule,  reassuringly, 
and  the  moment  of  hesitation  was  happily 
ended. 

"I  was  on  my  way  to  call  upon  you, 
Colonel  Bellamy;  my  name  is  Burton,"  said 
the  younger  man. 

"Will  you  come  with  me  to  the  house?" 
said  the  old  gentleman,  putting  out  his  hand 
cordially  a  second  time ;  and  though  he  had 
frowned  slightly  at  first  at  the  unmistakable 
Northern  accent,  the  light  came  quickly  to 
his  eyes.  Tom  gave  his  horse's  bridle  to 
the  boy,  who  promptly  transferred  himself 
to  the  better  saddle,  and  began  to  lead  the 
mule  instead. 

"I  have  been  charged  with  an  errand  of 
friendship,"  said  Tom.  "I  believe  that  you 
and  my  grandfather  were  at  Harvard  to 
gether."  Tom  looked  boyish  and  eager  and 
responsive  to  hospitality  at  this  moment. 
He  was  straight  and  trim,  like  a  Frenchman. 
Colonel  Bellamy  was  much  the  taller  of  the 
two,  even  with  his  bent  shoulders  and  re 
laxed  figure. 


A    WAR  DEBT.  77 

"I  see  the  resemblance  to  your  grandfa 
ther,  sir.  I  bid  you  welcome  to  Fairford," 
said  the  Colonel.  "Your  visit  is  a  great 
kindness." 

They  walked  on  together,  speaking  cere 
moniously  of  the  season  and  of  the  shooting 
and  Tom's  journey,  until  they  left  the  woods 
and  overgrown  avenue  at  the  edge  of  what 
had  once  been  a  fine  lawn,  with  clusters  of 
huge  oaks ;  but  these  were  shattered  by  war 
and  more  or  less  ruined.  The  lopped  trunks 
still  showed  the  marks  of  fire  and  shot ;  some 
had  put  out  a  fresh  bough  or  two,  but  most 
of  the  ancient  trees  stood  for  their  own  mon 
uments,  rain-bleached  and  gaunt.  At  the 
other  side  of  the  wide  lawn,  against  young 
woodland  and  a  glimpse  of  the  river,  were 
the  four  great  chimneys  which  had  been  seen 
from  the  highroad.  There  was  no  dwelling 
in  sight  at  the  moment,  and  Tom  stole  an  ap 
prehensive  look  at  the  grave  face  of  his  com 
panion.  It  appeared  as  if  he  were  being  led 
to  the  habitation  of  ghosts,  as  if  he  were  pur 
posely  to  be  confronted  with  the  desolation 
left  in  the  track  of  Northern  troops.  It  was 
not  so  long  since  the  great  war  that  these 
things  could  be  forgotten. 

The  Colonel,  however,   without   noticing 


78  A    WAR   DEBT. 

the  ruins  in  any  way,  turned  toward  the 
right  as  he  iieared  them,  and  passing  a  high 
fragment  of  brick  wall  topped  by  a  marble 
ball  or  two  —  which  had  been  shot  at  for 
marks  —  and  passing,  just  beyond,  some 
huge  clumps  of  box,  they  came  to  a  square 
brick  building  with  a  rude  wooden  addition 
at  one  side,  and  saw  some  tumble  -  down 
sheds  a  short  distance  beyond  this,  with  a 
negro  cabin. 

They  came  to  the  open  door.  "This  was 
formerly  the  billiard-room.  Your  grand 
father  would  have  kept  many  memories  of 
it,"  said  the  host  simply.  "Will  you  go  in, 
Mr.  Burton?"  And  Tom  climbed  two  or 
three  perilous  wooden  steps  and  entered,  to 
find  himself  in  a  most  homelike  and  charm 
ing  place.  There  was  a  huge  fireplace  oppo 
site  the  door,  with  a  thin  whiff  of  blue  smoke 
going  up,  a  few  old  books  on  the  high 
chimney-piece,  a  pair  of  fine  portraits  with 
damaged  frames,  some  old  tables  and  chairs 
of  different  patterns,  with  a  couch  by  the 
square  window  covered  with  a  piece  of  fine 
tapestry  folded  together  and  still  showing 
its  beauty,  however  raveled  and  worn.  By 
the  opposite  window,  curtained  only  by 
vines,  sat  a  lady  with  her  head  muffled  in 


A    WAR    DEBT.  79 

lace,  who  greeted  the  guest  pleasantly,  and 
begged  pardon  for  not  rising  from  her  chair. 
Her  face  wore  an  unmistakable  look  of  pain 
and  sorrow.  As  Tom  Burton  stood  at  her 
side,  he  could  find  nothing  to  say  in  answer 
to  her  apologies.  He  was  not  wont  to  be 
abashed,  and  a  real  court  could  not  affect 
him  like  this  ideal  one.  The  poor  surround 
ings  could  only  be  seen  through  the  glamour 
of  their  owner's  presence  —  it  seemed  a  most 
elegant  interior. 

"I  am  sorry  to  have  the  inconvenience  of 
deafness,"  said  Madam  Bellamy,  looking  up 
with  an  anxious  little  smile.  "Will  you  tell 
me  again  the  name  of  our  guest?" 

"He  is  my  old  classmate  Burton's  grand 
son,  of  Boston,"  said  the  Colonel,  who  now 
stood  close  at  her  side ;  he  looked  apprehen 
sive  as  he  spoke,  and  the  same  shadow  flitted 
over  his  face  as  when  Tom  had  announced 
himself  by  the  oak  at  the  roadside. 

"I  remember  Mr.  Burton,  your  grand 
father,  very  well,"  said  Madam  Bellamy  at 
last,  giving  Tom  her  hand  for  the  second 
time,  as  her  husband  had  done.  "He  was 
your  guest  here  the  autumn  before  we  were 
married,  my  dear;  a  fine  rider,  I  remem 
ber,  and  a  charming  gentleman.  He  was 


80  A    WAR   DEBT. 

much  entertained  by  one  of  our  hunts.  I 
saw  that  you  also  carried  a  gun.  My 
dear,"  and  she  turned  to  her  husband  anx 
iously,  "did  you  bring  home  any  birds?  " 

Colonel  Bellamy's  face  lengthened.  "I 
had  scarcely  time,  or  perhaps  I  had  not  my 
usual  good  fortune,"  said  he.  "The  birds 
have  followed  the  grain-fields  away  from 
Virginia,  we  sometimes  think." 

"I  can  offer  you  a  partridge,"  said  Tom 
eagerly.  "I  shot  one  as  I  rode  along.  I 
am  afraid  that  I  stopped  Colonel  Bellamy 
just  as  he  was  going  out." 

"I  thank  you  very  much,"  said  Madam 
Bellamy.  "And  you  will  take  supper  with 
us,  certainly.  You  will  give  us  the  pleasure 
of  a  visit  ?  I  regret  very  much  my  grand 
daughter's  absence,  but  it  permits  me  to  offer 
you  her  room,  which  happens  to  be  vacant." 
But  Tom  attempted  to  make  excuse.  "No, 
no,"  said  Madam  Bellamy,  answering  her 
own  thoughts  rather  than  his  words.  "You 
must  certainly  stay  the  night  with  us;  we 
shall  make  you  most  welcome.  It  will  give 
my  husband  great  pleasure;  he  will  have 
many  questions  to  ask  you." 

Tom  went  out  to  search  for  his  attendant, 
who  presently  clattered  away  on  the  mule 


A    WAR  DEBT.  81 

at  an  excellent  homeward  pace.  An  old 
negro  man  servant  led  away  the  horse,  and 
Colonel  Bellamy  disappeared  also,  leaving 
the  young  guest  to  entertain  himself  and  his 
hostess  for  an  hour,  that  flew  by  like  light. 
A  woman  who  is  charming  in  youth  is  still 
more  charming  in  age  to  a  man  of  Tom  Bur 
ton's  imagination,  and  he  was  touched  to 
find  how  quickly  the  first  sense  of  receiving 
an  antagonist  had  given  way  before  a  desire 
to  show  their  feeling  of  kindly  hospitality 
toward  a  guest.  The  links  of  ancient  friend 
ship  still  held  strong,  and  as  Tom  sat  with 
his  hostess  by  the  window  they  had  much 
pleasant  talk  of  Northern  families  known 
to  them  both,  of  whom,  or  of  whose  chil 
dren  and  grandchildren,  he  could  give  much 
news.  It  seemed  as  if  he  should  have 
known  Madam  Bellamy  all  his  life.  It 
is  impossible  to  say  how  she  illumined 
her  poor  habitation,  with  what  dignity  and 
sweetness  she  avoided,  as  far  as  possible, 
any  reference  to  the  war  or  its  effects.  One 
could  hardly  remember  that  she  was  poor, 
or  ill,  or  had  suffered  such  piteous  loss  of 
friends  and  fortune. 

Later,  when  Tom  was  walking  toward  the 
river  through  the  woods  and  overgrown  fields 


82  A     WAR    DEBT. 

of  the  plantation,  he  came  upon  the  ruins 
of  the  old  cabins  of  what  must  have  been 
a  great  family  of  slaves.  The  crumbling 
heaps  of  the  chimneys  stood  in  long  lines  on 
either  side  of  a  weed-grown  lane;  not  far 
beyond  he  found  the  sinking  mounds  of  some 
breastworks  on  a  knoll  which  commanded 
the  river  channel.  The  very  trees  and  grass 
looked  harrowed  and  distressed  by  war ;  the 
silence  of  the  sunset  was  only  broken  by  the 
cry  of  a  little  owl  that  was  begging  mercy 
of  its  fears  far  down  the  lonely  shore. 


v. 

At  supper  that  night  Burton  came  from 
his  room  to  find  Colonel  Bellamy  bringing 
his  wife  in  his  arms  to  the  table,  while  the 
old  bent-backed  and  gray-headed  man  ser 
vant  followed  to  place  her  chair.  The  mis 
tress  of  Fairford  was  entirely  lame  and  help 
less,  but  she  sat  at  the  head  of  her  table  like 
a  queen.  There  was  a  bunch  of  damask- 
roses  at  her  plate.  The  Colonel  himself  was 
in  evening  dress,  antique  in  cut,  and  sadly 
worn,  and  Tom  heartily  thanked  his  patron 
saint  that  the  boy  had  brought  his  portman 
teau  in  good  season.  There  was  a  glorious 


A    WAR    DEBT.  83 

light  in  the  room  from  the  fire,  and  the 
table  was  served  with  exquisite  care,  and 
even  more  luxurious  delay,  the  excellent  fish 
which  the  Colonel  himself  must  have  caught 
in  his  unexplained  absence,  and  Tom's  own 
partridge,  which  was  carved  as  if  it  had  been 
the  first  wild  turkey  of  the  season,  were  fol 
lowed  by  a  few  peaches  touched  with  splen 
did  color  as  they  lay  on  a  handful  of  leaves 
in  a  bent  and  dented  pewter  plate.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  use  for  the  stray  glasses, 
until  old  Milton  produced  a  single  small 
bottle  of  beer,  and  uncorked  and  poured  it 
for  his  master  and  his  master's  guest  with  a 
grand  air.  The  Colonel  lifted  his  eyebrows 
slightly,  but  accepted  its  appearance  at  the 
proper  moment. 

They  sat  long  at  table.  It  was  impossible 
to  let  one's  thought  dwell  upon  any  of  the 
meagre  furnishings  of  the  feast.  The  host 
and  hostess  talked  of  the  days  when  they 
went  often  to  France  and  England,  and  of 
Tom's  grandfather  when  he  was  young.  At 
last  Madam  Bellamy  left  the  table,  and 
Tom  stood  waiting  while  she  was  carried  to 
her  own  room.  He  had  kissed  her  hand  like 
a  courtier  as  he  said  good-night.  On  the 
Colonel's  return  the  old  butler  ostentatiously 


84  A    WAR   DEBT. 

placed  the  solitary  bottle  between  them  and 
went  away.  The  Colonel  offered  some 
excellent  tobacco,  and  Tom  begged  leave 
to  fetch  his  pipe.  When  he  returned  he 
brought  with  it  the  chamois-skin  bag  that 
held  the  silver  cup,  and  laid  it  before  him 
on  the  table.  It  was  like  the  dread  of  going 
into  battle,  but  the  moment  had  arrived. 
He  laid  his  hand  on  the  cup  for  a  moment 
as  if  to  hide  it,  then  he  waited  until  his  pipe 
was  fairly  going. 

"  This  is  something  which  I  have  come  to 
restore  to  you,  sir,"  said  Tom  presently, 
taking  the  piece  of  silver  from  its  wrappings. 
"I  believe  that  it  is  your  property." 

The  old  Colonel's  face  wore  a  strange, 
alarmed  look ;  his  thin  cheeks  grew  crimson. 
He  reached  eagerly  for  the  cup,  and  held  it 
before  his  eyes.  At  last  he  bent  his  head 
and  kissed  it.  Tom  Burton  saw  that  his 
tears  began  to  fall,  that  he  half  rose,  turn 
ing  toward  the  door  of  the  next  room,  where 
his  wife  was ;  then  he  sank  back  again,  and 
looked  at  his  guest  appealingly. 

"I  ask  no  questions,"  he  faltered;  "it 
was  the  fortune  of  war.  This  cup  was  my 
grandfather's,  my  father's,  and  mine;  all 
my  own  children  drank  from  it  in  turn ;  they 


A    WAR   DEBT.  85 

are  all  gone  before  me.  We  always  called 
it  our  lucky  cup.  I  fear  that  it  has  come 
back  too  late" —  The  old  man's  voice 
broke,  but  he  still  held  the  shining  piece  of 
silver  before  him,  and  turned  it  about  in  the 
candle-light. 

"  Je  vous  en  prie  Bel-ami," 

he  whispered  under  his  breath,  and  put  the 
cup  before  him  on  the  scarred  mahogany. 


VI. 

"  Shall  we  move  our  chairs  before  the 
fire,  Mr.  Burton?  My  dear  wife  is  but 
frail,"  said  the  old  man,  after  a  long  si 
lence,  and  with  touching  pathos.  "  She  sees 
me  companioned  for  the  evening,  and  is 
glad  to  seek  her  room  early;  if  you  were 
not  here  she  would  insist  upon  our  game  of 
cards.  I  do  not  allow  myself  to  dwell  upon 
the  past,  and  I  have  no  wish  for  gay  com 
pany;"  he  added,  in  a  lower  voice,  "My 
daily  dread  in  life  is  to  be  separated  from 
her." 

As  the  evening  wore  on,  the  autumn  air 
grew  chilly,  and  again  and  again  the  host 
replenished  his  draughty  fireplace,  and 
pushed  the  box  of  delicious  tobacco  toward 


86  A    WAR   DEBT. 

his  guest,  and  Burton  in  his  turn  ventured 
to  remember  a  flask  in  his  portmanteau,  and 
begged  the  Colonel  to  taste  it,  because  it  had 
been  filled  from  an  old  cask  in  his  grand 
father's  cellar.  The  butler's  eyes  shone 
with  satisfaction  when  he  was  unexpectedly 
called  upon  to  brew  a  little  punch  after  the 
old  Fairford  fashion,  and  t]ie  later  talk 
ranged  along  the  youthful  escapades  of 
Thomas  Burton  the  elder  to  the  beauties  and 
the  style  of  Addison;  from  the  latest  im 
provement  in  shot-guns  to  the  statesman 
ship  of  Thomas  Jefferson,  while  the  Colonel 
spoke  tolerantly,  in  passing,  of  some  slight 
misapprehensions  of  Virginia  life  made  by 
a  delightful  young  writer,  too  early  lost  — 
Mr.  Thackeray. 

Tom  Burton  had  never  enjoyed  an  even 
ing  more;  the  romance,  the  pathos  of  it,  as 
he  found  himself  more  and  more  taking  his 
grandfather's  place  in  the  mind  of  this 
hereditary  friend,  waked  all  his  sympathy. 
The  charming  talk  that  never  dwelt  too  long 
or  was  hurried  too  fast,  the  exquisite  faded 
beauty  of  Madam  Bellamy,  the  noble  dig 
nity  and  manliness  of  the  old  planter  and 
soldier,  the  perfect  absence  of  reproach  for 
others  or  whining  pity  for  themselves,  made 


A    WAR    DEBT.  87 

the  knowledge  of  their  regret  and  loss  doubly 
poignant.  Their  four  sons  had  all  laid  down 
their  lives  in  what  they  believed  from  their 
hearts  to  be  their  country's  service;  their 
daughters  had  died  early,  one  from  sorrow 
at  her  husband's  death,  and  one  from  expos 
ure  in  a  forced  flight  across  country;  their 
ancestral  home  lay  in  ruins;  their  beloved 
cause  had  been  put  to  shame  and  defeat  — 
yet  they  could  bow  their  heads  to  every  blast 
of  misfortune,  and  could  make  a  man  wel 
come  at  their  table  whose  every  instinct  and 
tradition  of  loyalty  made  him  their  enemy. 
The  owls  might  shriek  from  the  chimneys 
of  Fairford,  and  the  timid  wild  hares  course 
up  and  down  the  weed-grown  avenues  on  an 
autumn  night  like  this,  but  a  welcome  from 
the  Bellamys  was  a  welcome  still.  It  seemed 
to  the  young  imaginative  guest  that  the  old 
motto  of  the  house  was  never  so  full  of  sig 
nificance  as  when  he  fancied  it  exchanged 
between  the  Colonel  and  himself,  Southerner 
and  Northerner,  elder  and  younger  man,  con 
quered  and  conqueror  in  an  unhappy  war. 
The  two  old  portraits,  with  their  warped 
frames  and  bullet-holes,  faded  and  gleamed 
again  in  the  firelight;  the  portrait  of  an 
elderly  man  was  like  the  Colonel  himself, 


88  A    WAR   DEBT. 

but  the  woman,  who  was  younger,  and  who 
seemed  to  meet  Tom's  eye  gayly  enough, 
bore  a  resemblance  which  he  could  only  half 
recall.  It  was  very  late  when  the  two  men 
said  good-night.  They  were  each  conscious 
of  the  great  delight  of  having  found  a  friend. 
The  candles  had  flickered  out  long  before, 
but  the  fire  still  burned,  and  struck  a  ray  of 
light  from  the  cup  on  the  table. 


VII. 

The  next  morning  Burton  waked  early  in 
his  tiny  sleeping-room.  The  fragrance  of 
ripe  grapes  and  the  autumn  air  blew  in  at 
the  window,  and  he  hastened  to  dress,  es 
pecially  as  he  could  hear  the  footstep  and 
imperious  voice  of  Colonel  Bellamy,  who 
seemed  to  begin  his  new  day  with  zest  and 
courage  in  the  outer  room.  Milton,  the  old 
gray -headed  negro,  was  there  too,  and  was 
alternately  upbraided  and  spoken  with  most 
intimately  and  with  friendly  approval.  It 
sounded  for  a  time  as  if  some  great  excite 
ment  and  project  were  on  foot;  but  Milton 
presently  appeared,  eager  for  morning  offices, 
and  when  Tom  went  out  to  join  the  Colonel 
he  was  no  longer  there.  There  were  no 


A    WAR   DEBT.  89 

signs  of  breakfast.  The  birds  were  singing 
in  the  trees  outside,  and  the  sun  shone  in 
through  the  wide -opened  door.  It  was  a 
poor  place  in  the  morning  light.  As  he 
crossed  the  room  he  saw  an  old-fashioned 
gift-book  lying  on  the  couch,  as  if  some  one 
had  just  laid  it  there  face  downward.  He 
carried  it  with  him  to  the  door ;  a  dull  col 
lection  enough,  from  forgotten  writers  of 
forgotten  prose  and  verse,  but  the  Colonel 
had  left  it  open  at  some  lines  which,  with  all 
their  faults,  could  not  be  read  without  sym 
pathy.  He  was  always  thinking  of  his  wife ; 
he  had  marked  the  four  verses  because  they 
spoke  of  her. 

Tom  put  the  old  book  down  just  as 
Colonel  Bellamy  passed  outside,  and  has 
tened  to  join  him.  They  met  with  pleasure, 
and  stood  together  talking.  The  elder  man 
presently  quoted  a  line  or  two  of  poetry 
about  the  beauty  of  the  autumn  morning, 
and  his  companion  stood  listening  with  re 
spectful  attention,  but  he  observed  by  con 
trast  the  hard,  warriorlike  lines  of  the  Col 
onel's  face.  He  could  well  believe  that, 
until  sorrow  had  softened  him,  a  fiery  impa 
tient  temper  had  ruled  this  Southern  heart. 
There  was  a  sudden  chatter  and  noise  of 


90  A     WAR   DEBT. 

voices,  and  they  both  turned  to  see  a  group 
of  negroes,  small  and  great,  coming  across 
the  lawn  with  bags  and  baskets,  and  after  a 
few  muttered  words  the  old  master  set  forth 
hurriedly  to  meet  them,  Tom  following. 

"Be  still,  all  of  you!"  said  the  Colonel 
sternly.  "Your  mistress  is  still  asleep. 
Go  round  to  Milton,  and  he  will  attend  to 
you.  I  '11  come  presently." 

They  were  almost  all  old  people,  many  of 
them  were  already  infirm,  and  it  was  hard 
to  still  their  requests  and  complaints.  One 
of  the  smaller  children  clasped  Colonel 
Bellamy  about  the  knees.  There  was  some 
thing  patriarchal  in  the  scene,  and  one  could 
not  help  being  sure  that  some  reason  for  the 
present  poverty  of  Fairford  was  the  neces 
sity  for  protecting  these  poor  souls.  The 
merry,  well-fed  colored  people,  who  were 
indulging  their  late-won  liberty  of  travel  on 
the  trains,  had  evidently  shirked  any  re 
sponsibilities  for  such  stray  remnants  of  hu 
manity.  Slavery  was  its  own  provider  for 
old  age.  There  had  once  been  no  necessity 
for  the  slaves  themselves  to  make  provision 
for  winter,  as  even  a  squirrel  must.  They 
were  worse  than  children  now,  and  far  more 
appealing  in  their  helplessness. 


A    WAR   DEBT.  91 

The  group  slowly  departed,  and  Colonel 
Bellamy  led  the  way  in  the  opposite  direc 
tion,  toward  the  ruins  of  the  great  house. 
They  crossed  the  old  garden,  where  some 
ancient  espaliers  still  clung  to  the  broken 
brick -work  of  the  walls,  and  a  little  fruit 
still  clung  to  the  knotted  branches,  while 
great  hedges  of  box,  ragged  and  uncared 
for,  traced  the  old  order  of  the  walks.  The 
heavy  dew  and  warm  morning  sun  brought 
out  that  antique  fragrance,  —  the  faint  pun 
gent  odor  which  wakes  the  utmost  memories 
of  the  past.  Tom  Burton  thought  with  a 
sudden  thrill  that  the  girl  with  the  sweet 
eyes  yesterday  had  worn  a  bit  of  box  in  her 
dress.  Here  and  there,  under  the  straying 
boughs  of  the  shrubbery,  bloomed  a  late 
scarlet  poppy  from  some  scattered  seed  of 
which  such  old  soil  might  well  be  full.  It 
was  a  barren,  neglected  garden  enough,  but 
still  full  of  charm  and  delight,  being  a  gar 
den.  There  was  a  fine  fragrance  of  grapes 
through  the  undergrowth,  but  the  whole 
place  was  completely  ruined;  a  little  snake 
slid  from  the  broken  base  of  a  sun-dial;  the 
tall  chimneys  of  the  house  were  already  be 
ginning  to  crumble,  and  birds  and  squirrels 
lived  in  their  crevices  and  flitted  about  their 


92  A    WAR   DEBT. 

lofty  tops.  At  some  distance  an  old  negro 
was  singing,  —  it  must  have  been  Milton 
himself,  still  unbesought  by  his  depend 
ents,  —  and  the  song  was  full  of  strange, 
monotonous  wails  and  plaintive  cadences, 
like  a  lament  for  war  itself,  and  all  the 
misery  that  follows  in  its  train. 

Colonel  Bellamy  had  not  spoken  for  some 
moments,  but  when  they  reached  the  terrace 
which  had  been  before  the  house  there  were 
two  flights  of  stone  steps  that  led  to  empty 
air,  and  these  were  still  adorned  by  some 
graceful  railings  and  balusters,  bent  and 
rusty  and  broken. 

"You  will  observe  this  iron-work,  sir," 
said  the  Colonel,  stopping  to  regard  with 
pride  almost  the  only  relic  of  the  former 
beauty  and  state  of  Fairford.  "My  grand 
father  had  the  pattern  carefully  planned  in 
Charleston,  where  such  work  was  formerly 
well  done  by  Frenchmen."  He  stopped  to 
point  out  certain  charming  features  of  the 
design  with  his  walking-stick,  and  then  went 
on  without  a  glance  at  the  decaying  chim 
neys  or  the  weed-grown  cellars  and  heaps 
of  stones  beneath. 

The  lovely  October  morning  was  more 
than  half  gone  when  Milton  brought  the 


A    WAR   DEBT.  93 

horse  round  to  the  door,  and  the  moment 
came  to  say  farewell.  The  Colonel  had 
shown  sincere  eagerness  that  the  visit  should 
be  prolonged  for  at  least  another  day,  but 
a  reason  for  hurry  which  the  young  man 
hardly  confessed  to  himself  was  urging  him 
back  along  the  way  he  had  come.  He  was 
ready  to  forget  his  plans  for  shooting  and 
wandering  eastward  on  the  river  shore.  He 
had  paid  a  parting  visit  to  Madam  Bellamy 
in  her  own  room,  where  she  lay  on  a  couch 
in  the  sunshine,  and  had  seen  the  silver  cup 
—  a  lucky  cup  he  devoutly  hoped  it  might 
indeed  be  —  on  a  light  stand  by  her  side.  It 
held  a  few  small  flowers,  as  if  it  had  so  been 
brought  in  to  her  in  the  early  morning.  Her 
eyes  were  dim  with  weeping.  She  had  not 
thought  of  its  age  and  history,  neither  did 
the  sight  of  such  pathetic  loot  wake  bitter 
feelings  against  her  foes.  It  was  only  the 
cup  that  her  little  children  had  used,  one 
after  another,  in  their  babyhood;  the  last 
and  dearest  had  kept  it  longest,  and  even  he 
was  dead  —  fallen  in  battle,  like  the  rest. 

She  wore  a  hood  and  wrapping  of  black 
lace,  which  brought  out  the  delicacy  of  her 
features  like  some  quaint  setting.  Her 
hand  trembled  as  she  bade  her  young  guest 


94  A    WAR   DEBT. 

farewell.  As  he  looked  back  from  the  door 
way  she  was  like  some  exiled  queen  in  a 
peasant's  lodging,  such  dignity  and  sweet 
patience  were  in  her  look.  "I  think  you 
bring  good  fortune,"  she  said.  "  Nothing 
can  make  me  so  happy  as  to  have  my  hus 
band  find  a  little  pleasure." 

As  the  young  man  crossed  the  outer  room 
the  familiar  eyes  of  the  old  portrait  caught 
his  own  with  wistful  insistency.  He  sud 
denly  suspected  the  double  reason :  he  had 
been  dreaming  of  other  eyes,  and  knew 
that  his  fellow-traveler  had  kept  him  com 
pany.  "Madam  Bellamy,"  he  said,  turn 
ing  back,  and  blushing  as  he  bent  to  speak 
to  her  in  a  lower  voice,  —  "the  portrait;  is 
it  like  any  one?  is  it  like  your  granddaugh 
ter?  Could  I  have  seen  her  on  my  way 
here?" 

Madam  Bellamy  looked  up  at  his  eager 
face  with  a  light  of  unwonted  pleasure  in 
her  eyes.  "Yes,"  said  she,  "my  grand 
daughter  would  have  been  on  her  way  to 
Whitfields.  She  has  always  been  thought 
extremely  like  the  picture :  it  is  her  great- 
grandmother.  Good-by ;  pray  let  us  see  you 
at  Fairford  again;"  and  they  said  farewell 
once  more,  while  Tom  Burton  promised 


A    WAR    DEBT.  95 

something,  half  to  himself,  about  the  Christ 
mas  hunt. 

"  Je  vous  enprie  Belle  amie" 

he  whispered,  and  a  most  lovely  hope  was 
in  his  heart. 

"You  have  been  most  welcome,"  said  the 
Colonel  at  parting.  "  I  beg  that  you  will  be 
so  kind  as  to  repeat  this  visit.  I  shall  hope 
that  we  may  have  some  shooting  together." 

"  I  shall  hope  so  too,"  answered  Tom 
Burton  warmly.  Then,  acting  from  sudden 
impulse,  he  quickly  unslung  his  gun,  and 
begged  his  old  friend  to  keep  it  —  to  use  it, 
at  any  rate,  until  he  came  again. 

The  old  Virginian  did  not  reply  for  a  mo 
ment.  "Your  grandfather  would  have  done 
this,  sir.  I  loved  him,  and  I  take  it  from 
you  both.  My  own  gun  is  too  poor  a  thing 
to  offer  in  return."  His  voice  shook;  it  was 
the  only  approach  to  a  lament,  to  a  com 
plaint,  that  he  had  made. 

Tom  Burton  rode  slowly  away,  and  pres 
ently  the  fireless  chimneys  of  Fairford  were 
lost  to  sight  behind  the  clustering  trees. 
The  noonday  light  was  shining  on  the  distant 
river;  the  road  was  untraveled  and  unten- 
anted  for  miles  together,  except  by  the 
Northern  rider  and  his  Southern  steed. 


96  A    WAR   DEBT. 

This  ivas  the  way  that,  many  years  ago, 
a  Northerner  found  his  love,  a  poor  but 
noble,  lady  in  the  /South,  and  Fortune 
smiled  again  upon  the  ruined  house  of  Fair- 
ford. 


THE   HILTONS'   HOLIDAY. 
I. 

THERE  was  a  bright,  full  moon  in  the 
clear  sky,  and  the  sunset  was  still  shining 
faintly  in  the  west.  Dark  woods  stood  all 
about  the  old  Hilton  farmhouse,  save  down 
the  hill,  westward,  where  lay  the  shadowy 
fields  which  John  Hilton,  and  his  father  be 
fore  him,  had  cleared  and  tilled  with  much 
toil,  —  the  small  fields  to  which  they  had 
given  the  industry  and  even  affection  of 
their  honest  lives. 

John  Hilton  was  sitting  on  the  doorstep 
of  his  house.  As  he  moved  his  head  in  and 
out  of  the  shadows,  turning  now  and  then 
to  speak  to  his  wife,  who  sat  just  within 
the  doorway,  one  could  see  his  good  face, 
rough  and  somewhat  unkempt,  as  if  he  were 
indeed  a  creature  of  the  shady  woods  and 
brown  earth,  instead  of  the  noisy  town.  It 
was  late  in  the  long  spring  evening,  and  he 
had  just  come  from  the  lower  field  as  cheer 
ful  as  a  boy,  proud  of  having  finished  the 
planting  of  his  potatoes. 


98  THE   HIL TONS'    HOLIDAY. 

"I  had  to  do  my  last  row  mostly  by  feel- 
in',"  he  said  to  his  wife.  "I'm  proper 
glad  I  pushed  through,  an'  went  back  an' 
ended  off  after  supper.  'T  would  have 
taken  me  a  good  part  o'  to-morrow  mornin', 
an'  broke  my  day." 

"  'T  ain't  no  use  for  ye  to  work  yourself 
all  to  pieces,  John,"  answered  the  woman 
quickly.  "I  declare  it  does  seem  harder 
than  ever  that  we  could  n't  have  kep'  our 
boy;  he'd  been  comin'  fourteen  years  old 
this  fall,  most  a  grown  man,  and  he  'd  work 
right  'longside  of  ye  now  the  whole  time." 

"'T  was  hard  to  lose  him;  I  do  seem  to 
miss  little  John,"  said  the  father  sadly. 
"I  expect  there  was  reasons  why  't  was  best. 
I  feel  able  an'  smart  to  work;  my  father  was 
a  girt  strong  man,  an'  a  monstrous  worker 
afore  me.  'T  ain't  that;  but  I  was  thinkiii' 
by  myself  to-day  what  a  sight  o'  company 
the  boy  would  ha'  been.  You  know,  small 's 
he  was,  how  I  could  trust  to  leave  him  any 
wheres  with  the  team,  and  how  he  'd  be 
seech  to  go  with  me  wherever  I  was  goin' ; 
always  right  in  my  tracks  I  used  to  tell  'em. 
Poor  little  John,  for  all  he  was  so  young  he 
had  a  great  deal  o'  judgment;  he'd  ha' 
made  a  likely  man." 


THE    HILTONS'    HOLIDAY.  99 

The  mother  sighed  heavily  as  she  sat 
within  the  shadow. 

"But  then  there  's  the  little  girls,  a  sight 
o'  help  an'  company,"  urged  the  father 
eagerly,  as  if  it  were  wrong  to  dwell  upon 
sorrow  and  loss.  "Katy,  she's  most  as 
good  as  a  boy,  except  that  she  ain't  very 
rugged.  She's  a  real  little  farmer,  she's 
helped  me  a  sight  this  spring;  an'  you've 
got  Susan  Ellen,  that  makes  a  complete 
little  housekeeper  for  ye  as  far  as  she 's 
learnt.  I  don't  see  but  we  're  better  off 
than  most  folks,  each  on  us  having  a  work 
mate." 

"That's  so,  John,"  acknowledged  Mrs. 
Hilton  wistfully,  beginning  to  rock  steadily 
in  her  straight,  splint-bottomed  chair.  It 
was  always  a  good  sign  when  she  rocked. 

"Where  be  the  little  girls  so  late?  "  asked 
their  father.  "  'T  is  gettin'  long  past  eight 
o'clock.  I  don't  know  when  we  've  all  set 
up  so  late,  but  it  's  so  kind  o'  summer-like 
an'  pleasant.  Why,  where  be  they  gone?" 

"I've  told  ye;  only  over  to  Becker's 
folks,"  answered  the  mother.  "I  don't  see 
myself  what  keeps  'em  so  late;  they  be- 
seeched  me  after  supper  till  I  let  'em  go. 
They  're  all  in  a  dazzle  with  the  new  teacher; 


100  THE   HILTONS'    HOLIDAY. 

she  asked  'em  to  come  over.  They  say  she  's 
unusual  smart  with  'rethmetic,  but  she  has 
a  kind  of  a  gorpen  look  to  me.  She  's  goin' 
to  give  Katy  some  pieces  for  her  doll,  but  I 
told  Katy  she  ought  to  be  ashamed  wantin' 
dolls'  pieces,  big  as  she  's  gettin'  to  be.  I 
don't  know  's  she  ought,  though;  she  ain't 
but  nine  this  summer." 

"  Let  her  take  her  comfort,"  said  the  kind- 
hearted  man.  "Them  things  draws  her  to 
the  teacher,  an'  makes  them  acquainted. 
Katy  's  shy  with  new  folks,  more  so  'n  Susan 
Ellen,  who  's  of  the  business  kind.  Katy  's 
shy-feelin'  and  wishful." 

"I  don't  know  but  she  is,"  agreed  the 
mother  slowly.  "Ain't  it  sing'lar  how  well 
acquainted  you  be  with  that  one,  an'  I  with 
Susan  Ellen?  'Twas  always  so  from  the 
first.  I  'm  doubtful  sometimes  our  Katy 
ain't  one  that'll  be  like  to  get  married  — 
anyways  not  about  here.  She  lives  right 
with  herself,  but  Susan  Ellen  ain't  nothin' 
when  she's  alone,  she's  always  after  com 
pany;  all  the  boys  is  waitin'  on  her  a'ready. 
I  ain't  afraid  but  she  '11  take  her  pick  when 
the  time  comes.  I  expect  to  see  Susan  Ellen 
well  settled,  —  she  feels  grown  up  now,  - 
but  Katy  don't  care  one  mite  'bout  none  o' 


THE   HILTONS'    HOLIDAY.  101 

them  things.  She  wants  to  be  rovin'  out  o' 
doors.  I  do  believe  she  'd  stand  an'  hark 
to  a  bird  the  whole  forenoon." 

"Perhaps  she  '11  grow  up  to  be  a  teacher," 
suggested  John  Hilton.  "She  takes  to  her 
book  more  'n  the  other  one.  I  should  like 
one  on  'em  to  be  a  teacher  same  's  my  mother 
was.  They  're  good  girls  as  anybody  's  got." 

"So  they  be,"  said  the  mother,  with  un 
usual  gentleness,  and  the  creak  of  her  rock 
ing-chair  was  heard,  regular  as  the  ticking 
of  a  clock.  The  night  breeze  stirred  in  the 
great  woods,  and  the  sound  of  a  brook  that 
went  falling  down  the  hillside  grew  louder 
and  louder.  Now  and  then  one  could  hear 
the  plaintive  chirp  of  a  bird.  The  moon 
glittered  with  whiteness  like  a  winter  moon, 
and  shone  upon  the  low-roofed  house  until 
its  small  window-panes  gleamed  like  silver, 
and  one  could  almost  see  the  colors  of  a 
blooming  bush  of  lilac  that  grew  in  a  shel 
tered  angle  by  the  kitchen  door.  There  was 
an  incessant  sound  of  frogs  in  the  lowlands. 

"Be  you  sound  asleep,  John?"  asked  the 
wife  presently. 

"I  don't  know  but  what  I  was  a'most," 
said  the  tired  man,  starting  a  little.  "I 
should  laugh  if  I  was  to  fall  sound  asleep 


102  THE   HILTONS'   HOLIDAY. 

right  here  on  the  step;  't  is  the  bright 
night,  I  expect,  makes  my  eyes  feel  heavy, 
an'  'tis  so  peaceful.  I  was  up  an'  dressed 
a  little  past  four  an'  out  to  work.  Well, 
well!  "  and  he  laughed  sleepily  and  rubbed 
his  eyes.  "Where's  the  little  girls?  I'd 
better  step  along  an'  meet  'em." 

"I  wouldn't  just  yet;  they'll  get  home 
all  right,  but 't  is  late  for  'em  certain.  I 
don't  want  'em  keepin'  Mis'  Becker's  folks 
up  neither.  There,  le'  's  wait  a  few  min 
utes,"  urged  Mrs.  Hilton. 

"I've  be'n  a-thinkin'  all  day  I'd  like 
to  give  the  child 'n  some  kind  of  a  treat," 
said  the  father,  wide  awake  now.  "I  hur 
ried  up  my  work  'cause  I  had  it  so  in  mind. 
They  don't  have  the  opportunities  some  do, 
an'  I  want  'em  to  know  the  world,  an'  not 
stay  right  here  on  the  farm  like  a  couple 
o'  bushes." 

"They  're  a  sight  better  off  not  to  be  so 
full  o'  notions  as  some  is,"  protested  the 
mother  suspiciously. 

"Certain,"  answered  the  farmer;  "but 
they  're  good,  bright  child'n,  an'  commencin' 
to  take  a  sight  o'  notice.  I  want  'em  to 
have  all  we  can  give  'em.  I  want  'em  to 
see  how  other  folks  does  things." 


THE   HILTON&    HOLIDAY.  103 

"Why,  so  do  I,"  —here  the  rocking-chair 
stopped  ominously,  —  "but  so  long  's  they're 
contented  " 

"Contented  ain't  all  in  this  world;  hop 
per-toads  may  have  that  quality  an'  spend 
all  their  time  a-blinkin'.  I  don't  know  's 
bein'  contented  is  all  there  is  to  look  for  in 
a  child.  Ambition  's  somethin'  to  me." 

"Now  you  've  got  your  mind  on  to  some 
plot  or  other."  (The  rocking-chair  began 
to  move  again.)  "Why  can't  you  talk  right 
out?" 

"'T  ain't  nothin'  special,"  answered  the 
good  man,  a  little  ruffled;  he  was  never 
prepared  for  his  wife's  mysterious  powers  of 
divination.  "  Well  there,  you  do  find  things 
out  the  master!  I  only  thought  perhaps 
I  'd  take  'em  to-morrow,  an'  go  off  some 
where  if  't  was  a  good  clay.  I  've  been 
promisin'  for  a  good  while  I  'd  take  'em  to 
Topham  Corners ;  they  've  never  been  there 
since  they  was  very  small." 

"I  believe  you  want  a  good  time  yourself. 
You  ain't  never  got  over  bein'  a  boy." 
Mrs.  Hilton  seemed  much  amused.  "There, 
go  if  you  want  to  an'  take  'em;  they've 
got  their  summer  hats  an'  new  dresses.  I 
don't  know  o'  nothin'  that  stands  in  the 


104  THE   HILTONS*   HOLIDAY. 

way.  I  should  sense  it  better  if  there  was 
a  circus  or  any  thin'  to  go  to.  Why  don't 
you  wait  an'  let  the  girls  pick  'em  some 
strawberries  or  nice  ros'berries,  and  then 
they  could  take  an'  sell  'em  to  the  stores?  " 

John  Hilton  reflected  deeply.  "I  should 
like  to  get  me  some  good  yellow-turnip  seed 
to  plant  late.  I  ain't  more  'n  satisfied  with 
what  I  've  been  gettin'  o'  late  years  o'  Ira 
Speed.  An'  I  'm  goin'  to  provide  me  with 
a  good  hoe;  mine  's  gettin'  wore  out  an'  all 
shackly.  I  can't  seem  to  fix  it  good." 

"Them's  excuses,"  observed  Mrs.  Hil 
ton,  with  friendly  tolerance.  "  You  just 
cover  up  the  hoe  with  some  thin',  if  you  get 
it  —  I  would.  Ira  Speed  's  so  jealous  he  '11 
remember  it  of  you  this  twenty  year,  your 
goin'  an'  buy  in'  a  new  hoe  o'  anybody  but 
him." 

"I  've  always  thought  't  was  a  free  coun 
try,"  said  John  Hilton  soberly.  "I  don't 
want  to  vex  Ira  neither ;  he  favors  us  all  he 
can  in  trade.  'T  is  difficult  for  him  to  spare 
a  cent,  but  he  's  as  honest  as  daylight." 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  sudden  sound 
of  young  voices,  and  a  pair  of  young  figures 
came  out  from  the  shadow  of  the  woods  into 
the  moonlighted  open  space.  An  old  cock 


THE  HILT  ON  &    HOLIDAY.  105 

crowed  loudly  from  his  perch  in  the  shed, 
as  if  he  were  a  herald  of  royalty.  The  little 
girls  were  hand  in  hand,  and  a  brisk  young 
dog  capered  about  them  as  they  came.  . 

"Wa'n't  it  dark  gittin'  home  through 
the  woods  this  time  o'  night?"  asked  the 
mother  hastily,  and  not  without  reproach. 

"I  don't  love  to  have  you  gone  so  late; 
mother  an'  me  was  timid  about  ye,  and 
you  've  kep'  Mis'  Becker's  folks  up,  I  ex 
pect,"  said  their  father  regretfully.  "I 
don't  want  to  have  it  said  that  my  little 
girls  ain't  got  good  manners." 

"The  teacher  had  a  party,"  chirped  Su 
san  Ellen,  the  elder  of  the  two  children. 
"Goin'  home  from  school  she  asked  the 
Grover  boys,  an'  Mary  an'  Sarah  Speed. 
An'  Mis'  Becker  was  real  pleasant  to  us: 
she  passed  round  some  cake,  an'  handed  us 
sap  sugar  on  one  of  her  best  plates,  an' 
we  played  games  an'  sung  some  pieces  too. 
Mis'  Becker  thought  we  did  real  well.  I 
can  pick  out  most  of  a  tune  on  the  cabi 
net  organ;  teacher  says  she  '11  give  me 
lessons." 

"I  want  to  know,  dear! "  exclaimed  John 
Hilton. 

"Yes,  an'    we   played  Copenhagen,    an' 


106  THE   HILTONS'    HOLIDAY. 

took  sides  spellin',  an'  Katy  beat  everybody 
spellin'  there  was  there." 

Katy  had  not  spoken;  she  was  not  so 
strong  as  her  sister,  and  while  Susan  Ellen 
stood  a  step  or  two  away  addressing  her 
eager  little  audience,  Katy  had  seated  her 
self  close  to  her  father  on  the  doorstep.  He 
put  his  arm  around  her  shoulders,  and  drew 
her  close  to  his  side,  where  she  stayed. 

"Ain't  you  got  nothin'  to  tell,  daugh 
ter?"  he  asked,  looking  down  fondly;  and 
Katy  gave  a  pleased  little  sigh  for  answer. 

"Tell  'em  what  's  goin'  to  be  the  last  day 
o'  school,  and  about  our  trimmin'  the  school- 
house,"  she  said;  and  Susan  Ellen  gave  the 
programme  in  most  spirited  fashion. 

"'Twill  be  a  great  time,"  said  the  mo 
ther,  when  she  had  finished.  "I  don't  see 
why  folks  wants  to  go  trapesin'  off  to  strange 
places  when  such  things  is  happenin'  right 
about  'em."  But  the  children  did  not  ob 
serve  her  mysterious  air.  "  Come,  you  must 
step  yourselves  right  to  bed!  " 

They  all  went  into  the  dark,  warm  house ; 
the  bright  moon  shone  upon  it  steadily  all 
night,  and  the  lilac  flowers  were  shaken  by 
no  breath  of  wind  until  the  early  dawn. 


THE   HILTONS*    HOLIDAY.  107 

II. 

The  Hiltons  always  waked  early.  So  did 
their  neighbors,  the  crows  and  song-spar 
rows  and  robins,  the  light-footed  foxes  and 
squirrels  in  the  woods.  When  John  Hilton 
waked,  before  five  o'clock,  an  hour  later 
than  usual  because  he  had  sat  up  so  late,  he 
opened  the  house  door  and  came  out  into 
the  yard,  crossing  the  short  green  turf  hur 
riedly  as  if  the  day  were  too  far  spent  for 
any  loitering.  The  magnitude  of  the  plan 
for  taking  a  whole  day  of  pleasure  con 
fronted  him  seriously,  but  the  weather  was 
fair,  and  his  wife,  whose  disapproval  could 
not  have  been  set  aside,  had  accepted  and 
even  smiled  upon  the  great  project.  It  was 
inevitable  now,  that  he  and  the  children 
should  go  to  Topham  Corners.  Mrs.  Hil 
ton  had  the  pleasure  of  waking  them,  and 
telling  the  news. 

In  a  few  minutes  they  came  frisking  out 
to  talk  over  the  great  plans.  The  cattle 
were  already  fed,  and  their  father  was  milk 
ing.  The  only  sign  of  high  festivity  was  the 
wagon  pulled  out  into  the  yard,  with  both 
seats  put  in  as  if  it  were  Sunday;  but  Mr. 
Hilton  still  wore  his  every-day  clothes,  and 


108  THE   HILTONS'    HOLIDAY. 

Susan  Ellen  suffered  instantly  from  disap 
pointment. 

"Ain't  we  goin',  father?"  she  asked  com- 
plainingly ;  but  he  nodded  and  smiled  at  her, 
even  though  the  cow,  impatient  to  get  to 
pasture,  kept  whisking  her  rough  tail  across 
his  face.  He  held  his  head  down  and  spoke 
cheerfully,  in  spite  of  this  vexation. 

"Yes,  sister,  we  're  goin'  certain',  an' 
goin'  to  have  a  great  time  too."  Susan 
Ellen  thought  that  he  seemed  like  a  boy  at 
that  delightful  moment,  and  felt  new  sympa 
thy  and  pleasure  at  once.  "You  go  an'  help 
mother  about  breakfast  an'  them  things;  we 
want  to  get  off  quick  's  we  can.  You  coax 
mother  now,  both  on  ye,  an'  see  if  she  won't 
go  with  us." 

"She  said  she  wouldn't  be  hired  to,"  re 
sponded  Susan  Ellen.  "She  says  it 's  goin' 
to  be  hot,  an'  she  's  laid  out  to  go  over  an' 
see  how  her  aunt  Tamsen  Brooks  is  this 
afternoon." 

The  father  gave  a  little  sigh ;  then  he  took 
heart  again.  The  truth  was  that  his  wife 
made  light  of  the  contemplated  pleasure, 
and,  much  as  he  usually  valued  her  com 
panionship  and  approval,  he  was  sure  that 
they  should  have  a  better  time  without  her. 


THE   HILT  ON  S>   HOLIDAY.  109 

It  was  impossible,  however,  not  to  feel  guilty 
of  disloyalty  at  the  thought.  Even  though 
she  might  be  completely  unconscious  of  his 
best  ideals,  he  only  loved  her  and  the  ideals 
the  more,  and  bent  his  energies  to  satisfy 
ing  her  indefinite  expectations.  His  wife 
still  kept  much  of  that  youthful  beauty 
which  Susan  Ellen  seemed  likely  to  repro 
duce. 

An  hour  later  the  best  wagon  was  ready, 
and  the  great  expedition  set  forth.  The 
little  dog  sat  apart,  and  barked  as  if  it  fell 
entirely  upon  him  to  voice  the  general  ex 
citement.  Both  seats  were  in  the  wagon,  but 
the  empty  place  testified  to  Mrs.  Hilton's 
unyielding  disposition.  She  had  wondered 
why  one  broad  seat  would  not  do,  but  John 
Hilton  meekly  suggested  that  the  wagon 
looked  better  with  both.  The  little  girls 
sat  on  the  back  seat  dressed  alike  in  their 
Sunday  hats  of  straw  with  blue  ribbons,  and 
their  little  plaid  shawls  pinned  neatly  about 
their  small  shoulders.  They  wore  gray 
thread  gloves,  and  sat  very  straight.  Susan 
Ellen  was  half  a  head  the  taller,  but  other 
wise,  from  behind,  they  looked  much  alike. 
As  for  their  father,  he  was  in  his  Sunday 
best,  —  a  plain  black  coat,  and  a  winter 


110  THE   H1LTONS'   HOLIDAY. 

hat  of  felt,  which  was  heavy  and  rusty -look 
ing  for  that  warm  early  summer  day.  He 
had  it  in  mind  to  buy  a  new  straw  hat  at 
Topham,  so  that  this  with  the  turnip  seed 
and  the  hoe  made  three  important  reasons 
for  going. 

"Remember  an'  lay  off  your  shawls  when 
you  get  there,  an'  carry  them  over  your 
arms,"  said  the  mother,  clucking  like  an  ex 
cited  hen  to  her  chickens.  "They  '11  do  to 
keep  the  dust  off  your  new  dresses  goin'  an' 
comin'.  An'  when  you  eat  your  dinners 
don't  get  spots  on  you,  an'  don't  point  at 
folks  as  you  ride  by,  an'  stare,  or  they  '11 
know  you  come  from  the  country.  An' 
John,  you  call  into  Cousin  Ad 'line  Marlow's 
an'  see  how  they  all  be,  an'  tell  her  I  ex 
pect  her  over  certain  to  stop  awhile  before 
hayin'.  It  always  eases  her  phthisic  to  git 
up  here  on  the  high  land,  an'  I  've  got  a  new 
notion  about  doin'  over  her  best-room  car 
pet  sence  I  see  her  that  '11  save  rippiii'  one 
breadth.  An'  don't  come  home  all  wore 
out;  an',  John,  don't  you  go  an'  buy  me 
no  kickshaws  to  fetch  home.  I  ain't  a 
child,  an'  you  ain't  got  no  money  to  waste. 
I  expect  you  '11  go,  like  's  not,  an'  buy  you 
some  kind  of  a  foolish  boy's  hat;  do  look 


THE   HfLTONS*   HOLIDAY.  Ill 

an'  see  if  it  's  reasonable  good  straw,  an' 
won't  splinter  all  off  round  the  edge.  An' 
you  mind,  John" 

"Yes,  yes,  hold  on!"  cried  John  impa 
tiently  ;  then  he  cast  a  last  affectionate,  re 
assuring  look  at  her  face,  flushed  with  the 
hurry  and  responsibility  of  starting  them  off 
in  proper  shape.  "I  wish  you  was  goin' 
too,"  he  said,  smiling.  "I  do  so!"  Then 
the  old  horse  started,  and  they  went  out  at 
the  bars,  and  began  the  careful  long  de 
scent  of  the  hill.  The  young  dog,  tethered 
to  the  lilac-bush,  was  frantic  with  piteous 
appeals;  the  little  girls  piped  their  eager 
good-bys  again  and  again,  and  their  father 
turned  many  times  to  look  back  and  wave 
his  hand.  As  for  their  mother,  she  stood 
alone  and  watched  them  out  of  sight. 

There  was  one  place  far  out  on  the  high 
road  where  she  could  catch  a  last  glimpse  of 
the  wagon,  and  she  waited  what  seemed  a 
very  long  time  until  it  appeared  and  then 
was  lost  to  sight  again  behind  a  low  hill. 
"They  're  nothin'  but  a  pack  o'  child'n  to 
gether,"  she  said  aloud;  and  then  felt  lone 
lier  than  she  expected.  She  even  stooped 
and  patted  the  unresigned  little  dog  as  she 
passed  him,  going  into  the  house. 


112  THE   HILTONS*    HOLIDAY. 

The  occasion  was  so  much  more  impor 
tant  than  any  one  had  foreseen  that  both 
the  little  girls  were  speechless.  It  seemed 
at  first  like  going  to  church  in  new  clothes, 
or  to  a  funeral;  they  hardly  knew  how  to 
behave  at  the  beginning  of  a  whole  day  of 
pleasure.  They  made  grave  bows  at  such 
persons  of  their  acquaintance  as  happened 
to  be  straying  in  the  road.  Once  or  twice 
they  stopped  before  a  farmhouse,  while  their 
father  talked  an  inconsiderately  long  time 
with  some  one  about  the  crops  and  the 
weather,  and  even  dwelt  upon  town  business 
and  the  doings  of  the  selectmen,  which  might 
be  talked  of  at  any  time.  The  explanations 
that  he  gave  of  their  excursion  seemed  quite 
unnecessary.  It  was  made  entirely  clear 
that  he  had  a  little  business  to  do  at  Top- 
ham  Corners,  and  thought  he  had  better  give 
the  little  girls  a  ride;  they  had  been  very 
steady  at  school,  and  he  had  finished  plant 
ing,  and  could  take  the  day  as  well  as  not. 
Soon,  however,  they  all  felt  as  if  such  an  ex 
cursion  were  an  every-day  affair,  and  Susan 
Ellen  began  to  ask  eager  questions,  while 
Katy  silently  sat  apart  enjoying  herself  as 
she  never  had  done  before.  She  liked  to 
see  the  strange  houses,  and  the  children  who 


THE   HILTONS'    HOLIDAY.  113 

belonged  to  them ;  it  was  delightful  to  find 
flowers  that  she  knew  growing  all  along 
the  road,  no  matter  how  far  she  went  from 
home.  Each  small  homestead  looked  its  best 
and  pleasantest,  and  shared  the  exquisite 
beauty  that  early  summer  made,  —  shared 
the  luxury  of  greenness  and  floweriness  that 
decked  the  rural  world.  There  was  an 
early  peony  or  a  late  lilac  in  almost  every 
dooryard. 

It  was  seventeen  miles  to  Topham.  After 
a  while  they  seemed  very  far  from  home, 
having  left  the  hills  far  behind,  and  de 
scended  to  a  great  level  country  with  fewer 
tracts  of  woodland,  and  wider  fields  where 
the  crops  were  much  more  forward.  The 
houses  were  all  painted,  and  the  roads  were 
smoother  and  wider.  It  had  been  so  plea 
sant  driving  along  that  Katy  dreaded  going 
into  the  strange  town  when  she  first  caught 
sight  of  it,  though  Susan  Ellen  kept  asking 
with  bold  f retfulness  if  they  were  not  almost 
there.  They  counted  the  steeples  of  four 
churches,  and  their  father  presently  showed 
them  the  Topham  Academy,  where  their 
grandmother  once  went  to  school,  and  told 
them  that  perhaps  some  day  they  would  go 
there  too.  Katy's  heart  gave  a  strange 


114  THE   HILTONS*    HOLIDAY. 

leap;  it  was  sucli  a  tremendous  thing  to 
think  of,  but  instantly  the  suggestion  was 
transformed  for  her  into  one  of  the  certain 
ties  of  life.  She  looked  with  solemn  awe  at 
the  tall  belfry,  and  the  long  rows  of  windows 
in  the  front  of  the  academy,  there  where  it 
stood  high  and  white  among  the  clustering 
trees.  She  hoped  that  they  were  going  to 
drive  by,  but  something  forbade  her  taking 
the  responsibility  of  saying  so. 

Soon  the  children  found  themselves  among 
the  crowded  village  houses.  Their  father 
turned  to  look  at  them  with  affectionate  so 
licitude. 

"Now  sit  up  straight  and  appear  pretty," 
he  whispered  to  them.  "We  're  among  the 
best  people  now,  an'  I  want  folks  to  think 
well  of  you." 

"I  guess  we  're  as  good  as  they  be,"  re 
marked  Susan  Ellen,  looking  at  some  inno 
cent  passers-by  with  dark  suspicion,  but 
Katy  tried  indeed  to  sit  straight,  and  folded 
her  hands  prettily  in  her  lap,  and  wished 
with  all  her  heart  to  be  pleasing  for  her 
father's  sake.  Just  then  an  elderly  woman 
saw  the  wagon  and  the  sedate  party  it  car 
ried,  and  smiled  so  kindly  that  it  seemed  to 
Katy  as  if  Topham  Corners  had  welcomed 


THE   H1LTONS*    HOLIDAY.  115 

and  received  them.  She  smiled  back  again 
as  if  this  hospitable  person  were  an  old 
friend,  and  entirely  forgot  that  the  eyes  of 
all  Topham  had  been  upon  her. 

"There,  now  we  're  coming  to  an  elegant 
house  that  I  want  you  to  see ;  you  '11  never 
forget  it,"  said  John  Hilton.  "It 's  where 
Judge  Masterson  lives,  the  great  lawyer; 
the  handsomest  house  in  the  county,  every 
body  says." 

"Do  you  know  him,  father?  "  asked  Susan 
Ellen. 

"I  do,"  answered  John  Hilton  proudly. 
"Him  and  my  mother  went  to  school  to 
gether  in  their  young  days,  and  were  always 
called  the  two  best  scholars  of  their  time. 
The  judge  called  to  see  her  once;  he 
stopped  to  our  house  to  see  her  when  I  was 
a  boy.  An'  then,  some  years  ago  —  you  've 
heard  me  tell  how  I  was  on  the  jury,  an' 
when  he  heard  my  name  spoken  he  looked  at 
me  sharp,  and  asked  if  I  wa'n't  the  son  of 
Catharine  Winn,  an'  spoke  most  beautiful 
of  your  grandmother,  an'  how  well  he  re 
membered  their  young  days  together." 

"I  like  to  hear  about  that,"  said  Katy. 

"  She  had  it  pretty  hard,  I  'm  afraid,  up 
on  the  old  farm.  She  was  keepin'  school 


116  THE   HI  LIONS'    HOLIDAY. 

in  our  district  when  father  married  her — • 
that 's  the  main  reason  I  backed  'em  down 
when  they  wanted  to  tear  the  old  schoolhouse 
all  to  pieces,"  confided  John  Hilton,  turning 
eagerly.  "They  all  say  she  lived  longer  up 
here  on  the  hill  than  she  could  anywhere, 
but  she  never  had  her  health.  I  wa'n't  but 
a  boy  when  she  died.  Father  an'  me  lived 
alone  afterward  till  the  time  your  mother 
come;  'twas  a  good  while,  too;  I  wa'n't 
married  so  young  as  some.  'T  was  lone 
some,  I  tell  you ;  father  was  plumb  discour 
aged  losin'  of  his  wife,  an'  her  long  sickness 
an'  all  set  him  back,  an'  we  'd  work  all  day 
on  the  land  an'  never  say  a  word.  I  s'pose 
't  is  bein'  so  lonesome  early  in  life  that 
makes  me  so  pleased  to  have  some  nice  girls 
growin'  up  round  me  now." 

There  was  a  tone  in  her  father's  voice  that 
drew  Katy's  heart  toward  him  with  new 
affection.  She  dimly  understood,  but  Susan 
Ellen  was  less  interested.  They  had  often 
heard  this  story  before,  but  to  one  child  it 
was  always  new  and  to  the  other  old.  Su 
san  Ellen  was  apt  to  think  it  tiresome  to 
hear  about  her  grandmother,  who,  being 
dead,  was  hardly  worth  talking  about. 

"There  's  Judge  Masterson's  place,"  said 


THE   HILTONS'    HOLIDAY.  117 

their  father  in  an  every-day  manner,  as  they 
turned  a  corner,  and  came  into  full  view  of 
the  beautiful  old  white  house  standing  be 
hind  its  green  trees  and  terraces  and  lawns. 
The  children  had  never  imagined  anything 
so  stately  and  fine,  and  even  Susan  Ellen 
exclaimed  with  pleasure.  At  that  moment 
they  saw  an  old  gentleman,  who  carried 
himself  with  great  dignity,  coming  slowly 
down  the  wide  box-bordered  path  toward  the 
gate. 

"There  he  is  now,  there's  the  judge!" 
whispered  John  Hilton  excitedly,  reining 
his  horse  quickly  to  the  green  roadside. 
"He's  goin'  down-town  to  his  office;  we 
can  wait  right  here  an'  see  him.  I  can't 
expect  him  to  remember  me;  it's  been  a 
good  many  years.  Now  you  are  go  in'  to 
see  the  great  Judge  Master  son!  " 

There  was  a  quiver  of  expectation  in  their 
hearts.  The  judge  stopped  at  his  gate,  hesi 
tating  a  moment  before  he  lifted  the  latch, 
and  glanced  up  the  street  at  the  country 
wagon  with  its  two  prim  little  girls  on  the 
back  seat,  and  the  eager  man  who  drove. 
They  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  something; 
the  old  horse  was  nibbling  at  the  fresh 
roadside  grass.  The  judge  was  used  to  be- 


118  THE   HILTONS'    HOLIDAY. 

ing  looked  at  with  interest,  and  responded 
now  with  a  smile  as  he  came  out  to  the 
sidewalk,  and  unexpectedly  turned  their 
way.  Then  he  suddenly  lifted  his  hat  with 
grave  politeness,  and  came  directly  toward 
them. 

"  Good  -morning,  Mr.  Hilton,"  he  said. 
"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  sir; "  and  Mr. 
Hilton,  the  little  girls'  own  father,  took  off 
his  hat  with  equal  courtesy,  and  bent  for 
ward  to  shake  hands. 

Susan  Ellen  cowered  and  wished  herself 
away,  but  little  Katy  sat  straighter  than 
ever,  with  joy  in  her  father's  pride  and 
pleasure  shining  in  her  pale,  flower-like 
little  face. 

"These  are  your  daughters,  I  am  sure," 
said  the  old  gentleman  kindly,  taking  Susan 
Ellen's  limp  and  reluctant  hand ;  but  when 
he  looked  at  Katy,  his  face  brightened. 
"How  she  recalls  your  mother!"  he  said 
with  great  feeling.  "I  am  glad  to  see  this 
dear  child.  You  must  come  to  see  me  with 
your  father,  my  dear,"  he  added,  still  look 
ing  at  her.  "Bring  both  the  little  girls, 
and  let  them  run  about  the  old  garden ;  the 
cherries  are  just  getting  ripe,"  said  Judge 
Masterson  hospitably.  "Perhaps  you  will 


THE  HILTONS*   HOLIDAY.  119 

have  time  to  stop  this  afternoon  as  you  go 
home?" 

"I  should  call  it  a  great  pleasure  if  you 
would  come  and  see  us  again  some  time. 
You  may  be  driving  our  way,  sir,"  said 
John  Hilton. 

uNot  very  often  in  these  days,"  answered 
the  old  judge.  "I  thank  you  for  the  kind 
invitation.  I  should  like  to  see  the  fine  view 
again  from  your  hill  westward.  Can  I  serve 
you  in  any  way  while  you  are  in  town? 
Good-by,  my  little  friends!  " 

Then  they  parted,  but  not  before  Katy, 
the  shy  Katy,  whose  hand  the  judge  still 
held  unconsciously  while  he  spoke,  had 
reached  forward  as  he  said  good-by,  and 
lifted  her  face  to  kiss  him.  She  could  not 
have  told  why,  except  that  she  felt  drawn  to 
something  in  the  serious,  worn  face.  For 
the  first  time  in  her  life  the  child  had  felt 
the  charm  of  manners ;  perhaps  she  owned 
a  kinship  between  that  which  made  him  what 
he  was,  and  the  spark  of  nobleness  and  pur 
ity  in  her  own  simple  soul.  She  turned 
again  and  again  to  look  back  at  him  as  they 
drove  away. 

"Now  you  have  seen  one  of  the  first  gen 
tlemen  in  the  country,"  said  their  father. 


120  THE  HILTONS'   HOLIDAY. 

"It  was  worth  comin'  twice  as  far"  -  but 
he  did  not  say  any  more,  nor  turn  as  usual 
to  look  in  the  children's  faces. 

In  the  chief  business  street  of  Topham  a 
great  many  country  wagons  like  the  Hil- 
tons'  were  fastened  to  the  posts,  and  there 
seemed  to  our  holiday-makers  to  be  a  great 
deal  of  noise  and  excitement. 

"Now  I  've  got  to  do  my  errands,  and  we 
can  let  the  horse  rest  and  feed,"  said  John 
Hilton.  "I '11  slip  his  headstall  right  off, 
an'  put  on  his  halter.  I  'm  goin'  to  buy 
him  a  real  good  treat  o'  oats.  First  we  '11 
go  an'  buy  me  my  straw  hat;  I  feel  as  if 
this  one  looked  a  little  past  to  wear  in  Top- 
ham.  We  '11  buy  the  things  we  want,  an' 
then  we  '11  walk  all  along  the  street,  so  you 
can  look  in  the  windows  an'  see  the  han'- 
some  things,  same  's  your  mother  likes  to. 
What  was  it  mother  told  you  about  your 
shawls?" 

"To  take  'em  off  an'  carry  'em  over  our 
arms,"  piped  Susan  Ellen,  without  comment, 
but  in  the  interest  of  alighting  and  finding 
themselves  afoot  upon  the  pavement  the 
shawls  were  forgotten.  The  children  stood 
at  the  doorway  of  a  shop  while  their  father 


THE   HILT  ON  S'    HOLIDAY.  121 

went  inside,  and  they  tried  to  see  what  the 
Topham  shapes  of  bonnets  were  like,  as 
their  mother  had  advised  them;  but  every 
thing  was  exciting  and  confusing,  and  they 
could  arrive  at  no  decision.  When  Mr. 
Hilton  came  out  with  a  hat  in  his  hand  to 
be  seen  in  a  better  light,  Katy  whispered 
that  she  wished  he  would  buy  a  shiny  one 
like  Judge  Master  son's;  but  her  father  only 
smiled  and  shook  his  head,  and  said  that 
they  were  plain  folks,  he  and  Katy.  There 
were  dry-goods  for  sale  in  the  same  shop, 
and  a  young  clerk  who  was  measuring  linen 
kindly  pulled  off  some  pretty  labels  with 
gilded  edges  and  gay  pictures,  and  gave 
them  to  the  little  girls,  to  their  exceeding 
joy.  He  may  have  had  small  sisters  at 
home,  this  friendly  lad,  for  he  took  pains  to 
find  two  pretty  blue  boxes  besides,  and  was 
rewarded  by  their  beaming  gratitude. 

It  was  a  famous  day;  they  even  became 
used  to  seeing  so  many  people  pass.  The 
village  was  full  of  its  morning  activity,  and 
Susan  Ellen  gained  a  new  respect  for  her 
father,  and  an  increased  sense  of  her  own 
consequence,  because  even  in  Topham  several 
persons  knew  him  and  called  him  familiarly 
by  name.  The  meeting  with  an  old  man 


122  THE   HILTONS*    HOLIDAY. 

who  had  once  been  a  neighbor  seemed  to  give 
Mr.  Hilton  the  greatest  pleasure.  The  old 
man  called  to  them  from  a  house  doorway 
as  they  were  passing,  and  they  all  went  in. 
The  children  seated  themselves  wearily  on 
the  wooden  step,  but  their  father  shook  his 
old  friend  eagerly  by  the  hand,  and  declared 
that  he  was  delighted  to  see  him  so  well  and 
enjoying  the  fine  weather. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  old  man,  in  a  feeble, 
quavering  voice,  "I'm  astonishin'  well  for 
my  age.  I  don't  complain,  John,  I  don't 
complain." 

They  talked  long  together  of  people  whom 
they  had  known  in  the  past,  and  Katy,  be 
ing  a  little  tired,  was  glad  to  rest,  and  sat 
still  with  her  hands  folded,  looking  about 
the  front  yard.  There  were  some  kinds  of 
flowers  that  she  never  had  seen  before. 

"This  is  the  one  that  looks  like  my  mo 
ther,"  her  father  said,  and  touched  Katy's 
shoulder  to  remind  her  to  stand  up  and  let 
herself  be  seen.  "Judge  Masterson  saw 
the  resemblance ;  we  met  him  at  his  gate  this 
morning." 

"Yes,  she  certain  does  look  like  your  mo 
ther,  John,"  said  the  old  man,  looking  plea 
santly  at  Katy,  who  found  that  she  liked  him 


THE   HILTONS*    HOLIDAY.  123 

better  than  at  first.  "She  does,  certain; 
the  best  of  young  folks  is,  they  remind  us 
of  the  old  ones.  'Tis  nateral  to  cling  to 
life,  folks  say,  but  for  me,  I  git  impatient 
at  times.  Most  everybody  's  gone  now,  an' 
I  want  to  be  goin'.  'Tis  somethin'  before 
me,  an'  I  want  to  have  it  over  with.  I  want 
to  be  there  'long  o'  the  rest  o'  the  folks.  I 
expect  to  last  quite  a  while  though ;  I  may 
see  ye  couple  o'  times  more,  John." 

John  Hilton  responded  cheerfully,  and 
the  children  were  urged  to  pick  some  flowers. 
The  old  man  awed  them  with  his  impatience 
to  be  gone.  There  was  such  a  townful  of 
people  about  him,  and  he  seemed  as  lonely 
as  if  he  were  the  last  survivor  of  a  former 
world.  Until  that  moment  they  had  felt  as 
if  everything  were  just  beginning. 

"Now  I  want  to  buy  somethin'  pretty  for 
your  mother,"  said  Mr.  Hilton,  as  they  went 
soberly  away  down  the  street,  the  children 
keeping  fast  hold  of  his  hands.  "By  now 
the  old  horse  will  have  eat  his  dinner  and 
had  a  good  rest,  so  pretty  soon  we  can  jog 
along  home.  I  'm  goin'  to  take  you  round 
by  the  academy,  and  the  old  North  Meeting 
house  where  Dr.  Bar  stow  used  to  preach. 
Can't  you  think  o'  somethin'  that  your 


124  THE   IflLTONS'   HOLIDAY. 

mother 'd  want?"  he  asked  suddenly,  con 
fronted  by  a  man's  difficulty  of  choice. 

"She  was  talkin'  about  wantin'  a  new 
pepper-box,  one  day;  the  top  o'  the  old  one 
won't  stay  on,"  suggested  Susan  Ellen,  with 
delightful  readiness.  "Can't  we  have  some 
candy,  father?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  John  Hilton,  smiling 
and  swinging  her  hand  to  and  fro  as  they 
walked.  "I  feel  as  if  some  would  be  <rood 

O 

myself.  What 's  all  this?  "  They  were  pass 
ing  a  photographer's  doorway  with  its  en 
ticing  array  of  portraits.  "I  do  declare!" 
he  exclaimed  excitedly,  "I  'm  goin'  to  have 
our  pictures  taken;  'twill  please  your  mo 
ther  more  'n  a  little." 

This  was,  perhaps,  the  greatest  triumph  of 
the  day,  except  the  delightful  meeting  with 
the  judge ;  they  sat  in  a  row,  with  the  father 
in  the  middle,  and  there  was  no  doubt  as 
to  the  excellence  of  the  likeness.  The  best 
hats  had  to  be  taken  off  because  they  cast  a 
shadow,  but  they  were  not  missed,  as  their 
owners  had  feared.  Both  Susan  Ellen  and 
Katy  looked  their  brightest  and  best ;  their 
eager  young  faces  would  forever  shine  there ; 
the  joy  of  the  holiday  was  mirrored  in  the 
little  picture.  They  did  not  know  why  their 


THE  HILTONS'   HOLIDAY.  125 

father  was  so  pleased  with  it;  they  would 
not  know  until  age  had  dowered  them  with 
the  riches  of  association  and  remembrance. 

Just  at  nightfall  the  Hiltons  reached  home 
again,  tired  out  and  happy.  Katy  had 
climbed  over  into  the  front  seat  beside  her 
father,  because  that  was  always  her  place 
when  they  went  to  church  on  Sundays.  It 
was  a  cool  evening,  there  was  a  fresh  sea 
wind  that  brought  a  light  mist  with  it,  and 
the  sky  was  fast  growing  cloudy.  Somehow 
the  children  looked  different ;  it  seemed  to 
their  mother  as  if  they  had  grown  older  and 
taller  since  they  went  away  in  the  morning, 
and  as  if  they  belonged  to  the  town  now  as 
much  as  to  the  country.  The  greatness  of 
their  day's  experience  had  left  her  far  be 
hind;  the  day  had  been  silent  and  lonely 
without  them,  and  she  had  had  their  supper 
ready,  and  been  watching  anxiously,  ever 
since  five  o'clock.  As  for  the  children  them 
selves  they  had  little  to  say  at  first  —  they 
had  eaten  their  luncheon  early  on  the  way 
to  Topham.  Susan  Ellen  was  childishly 
cross,  but  Katy  was  pathetic  and  wan.  They 
could  hardly  wait  to  show  the  picture,  and 
their  mother  was  as  much  pleased  as  every 
body  had  expected. 


126  THE  H1LTON&   HOLIDAY. 

"There,  what  did  make  you  wear  your 
shawls  ?  "  she  exclaimed  a  moment  afterward, 
reproachfully.  "You  ain't  been  an'  wore 
'em  all  day  long?  I  wanted  folks  to  see 
how  pretty  your  new  dresses  was,  if  I  did 
make  'em.  Well,  well!  I  wish  more  'n  ever 
now  I  'd  gone  an'  seen  to  ye !  " 

"An'  here  's  the  pepper-box!  "  said  Katy, 
in  a  pleased,  unconscious  tone. 

"That  really  is  what  I  call  beautiful," 
said  Mrs.  Hilton,  after  a  long  and  doubt 
ful  look.  "Our  other  one  was  only  tin.  I 
never  did  look  so  high  as  a  chiny  one  with 
flowers,  but  I  can  get  us  another  any  time 
for  every  day.  That  rs  a  proper  hat,  as 
good  as  you  could  have  got,  John.  Where  's 
your  new  hoe  ?  "  she  asked  as  he  came  toward 
her  from  the  barn,  smiling  with  satisfaction. 

"I  declare  to  Moses  if  I  didn't  forget  all 
about  it,"  meekly  acknowledged  the  leader 
of  the  great  excursion.  "That  an'  my  yel 
low  turnip  seed,  too;  they  went  clean  out  o' 
my  head,  there  was  so  many  other  things  to 
think  of.  But  't  ain't  no  sort  o'  matter;  I 
can  get  a  hoe  just  as  well  to  Ira  Speed's." 

His  wife  could  not  help  laughing.  "You 
an'  the  little  girls  have  had  a  great  time. 
They  was  full  o'  wonder  to  me  about  every- 


THE   HILTONS'    HOLIDAY.  127 

thing,  and  I  expect  they  '11  talk  about  it  for 
a  week.  I  guess  we  was  right  about  havin' 
'em  see  somethin'  more  o'  the  world." 

"Yes,"  answered  John  Hilton,  with  hu 
mility,  "yes,  we  did  have  a  beautiful  day. 
I  didn't  expect  so  much.  They  looked  as 
nice  as  anybody,  and  appeared  so  modest  an' 
pretty.  The  little  girls  will  remember  it 
perhaps  by  an'  by.  I  guess  they  won't 
never  forget  this  day  they  had  'long  o'  fa 
ther." 

It  was  evening  again,  the  frogs  were  pip 
ing  in  the  lower  meadows,  and  in  the  woods, 
higher  up  the  great  hill,  a  little  owl  began 
to  hoot.  The  sea  air,  salt  and  heavy,  was 
blowing  in  over  the  country  at  the  end  of 
the  hot  bright  day.  A  lamp  was  lighted  in 
the  house,  the  happy  children  were  talking 
together,  and  supper  was  waiting.  The  fa 
ther  and  mother  lingered  for  a  moment  out 
side  and  looked  down  over  the  shadowy 
fields ;  then  they  went  in,  without  speaking. 
The  great  day  was  over,  and  they  shut  the 
door. 


THE  ONLY  ROSE. 

I. 

JUST  where  the  village  abruptly  ended, 
and  the  green  mowing  fields  began,  stood 
Mrs.  Bickford's  house,  looking  down  the 
road  with  all  its  windows,  and  topped  by 
two  prim  chimneys  that  stood  up  like  ears. 
It  was  placed  with  an  end  to  the  road, 
and  fronted  southward;  you  could  follow  a 
straight  path  from  the  gate  past  the  front 
door  and  find  Mrs.  Bickford  sitting  by  the 
last  window  of  all  in  the  kitchen,  unless  she 
were  solemnly  stepping  about,  prolonging  the 
stern  duties  of  her  solitary  housekeeping. 

One  day  in  early  summer,  when  almost 
every  one  else  in  Fairfield  had  put  her  house 
plants  out  of  doors,  there  were  still  three 
flower  pots  on  a  kitchen  window  sill.  Mrs. 
Bickford  spent  but  little  time  over  her  rose 
and  geranium  and  Jerusalem  cherry-tree, 
although  they  had  gained  a  kind  of  person 
ality  born  of  long  association.  They  rarely 
undertook  to  bloom,  but  had  most  coura- 


THE    ONLY  ROSE.  129 

geously  maintained  life  in  spite  of  their  own 
er's  unsympathetic  but  conscientious  care. 
Later  in  the  season  she  would  carry  them 
out  of  doors,  and  leave  them,  until  the  time 
of  frosts,  under  the  shade  of  a  great  apple- 
tree,  where  they  might  make  the  best  of 
what  the  summer  had  to  give. 

The  afternoon  sun  was  pouring  in,  the 
Jerusalem  cherry-tree  drooped  its  leaves  in 
the  heat  and  looked  pale,  when  a  neighbor, 
Miss  Pendexter,  came  in  from  the  next 
house  but  one  to  make  a  friendly  call.  As 
she  passed  the  parlor  with  its  shut  blinds, 
and  the  sitting-room,  also  shaded  carefully 
from  the  light,  she  wished,  as  she  had  done 
many  times  before,  that  somebody  beside  the 
owner  might  have  the  pleasure  of  living  in 
and  using  so  good  and  pleasant  a  house. 
Mrs.  Bickford  always  complained  of  having 
so  much  care,  even  while  she  valued  herself 
intelligently  upon  having  the  right  to  do  as 
she  pleased  with  one  of  the  best  houses  in 
Fairfield.  Miss  Pendexter  was  a  cheerful, 
even  gay  little  person,  who  always  brought 
a  pleasant  flurry  of  excitement,  and  usually 
had  a  genuine  though  small  piece  of  news  to 
tell,  or  some  new  aspect  of  already  received 
information . 


130  THE    ONLY  ROSE. 

Mrs.  Bickford  smiled  as  she  looked  up  to 
see  this  sprightly  neighbor  coming.  She 
had  no  gift  at  entertaining  herself,  and  was 
always  glad,  as  one  might  say,  to  be  taken 
off  her  own  hands. 

Miss  Pendexter  smiled  back,  as  if  she  felt 
herself  to  be  equal  to  the  occasion. 

"How  be  you  to-day?"  the  guest  asked 
kindly,  as  she  entered  the  kitchen.  "  Why, 
what  a  sight  o'  flowers,  Mis'  Bickford  ! 
What  be  you  goin'  to  do  with  'em  all?  " 

Mrs.  Bickford  wore  a  grave  expression  as 
she  glanced  over  her  spectacles.  "My  sis 
ter's  boy  fetched  'em  over,"  she  answered. 
"You  know  my  sister  Parsons 's  a  great  hand 
to  raise  flowers,  an'  this  boy  takes  after  her. 
He  said  his  mother  thought  the  gardin  never 
looked  handsomer,  and  she  picked  me  these 
to  send  over.  They  was  sendin'  a  team  to 
Westbury  for  some  fertilizer  to  put  on  the 
land,  an'  he  come  with  the  men,  an'  stopped 
to  eat  his  dinner  'long  o'  me.  He  's  been 
growin'  fast,  and  looks  peaked.  I  expect 
sister  'Liza  thought  the  ride,  this  pleasant 
day,  would  do  him  good.  'Liza  sent  word 
for  me  to  come  over  and  pass  some  days  next 
week,  but  it  ain't  so  that  I  can." 

"Why,  it 's  a  pretty  time  of  year  to  go 


THE    ONLY  ROSE.  131 

off  and  make  a  little  visit,"  suggested  the 
neighbor  encouragingly. 

"  I  ain't  got  my  sitting-room  chamber 
carpet  taken  up  yet,"  sighed  Mrs.  Bickford. 
"I  do  feel  condemned.  I  might  have  done 
it  to-day,  but  't  was  all  at  end  when  I  saw 
Tommy  coming.  There,  he  's  a  likely  boy, 
an'  so  relished  his  dinner;  I  happened  to  be 
well  prepared.  I  don't  know  but  he  's  my 
favorite  o'  that  family.  Only  I  've  been 
sittin'  here  thinkin',  since  he  went,  an'  I 
can't  remember  that  I  ever  was  so  belated 
with  my  spring  cleaning." 

"'Twas  owin'  to  the  weather,"  explained 
Miss  Pendexter.  "None  of  us  could  be  so 
smart  as  common  this  year,  not  even  the  lazy 
ones  that  always  get  one  room  done  the  first 
o'  March,  and  brag  of  it  to  others'  shame, 
and  then  never  let  on  when  they  do  the  rest." 

The  two  women  laughed  together  cheer 
fully.  Mrs.  Bickford  had  put  up  the  wide 
leaf  of  her  large  table  between  the  windows 
and  spread  out  the  flowers.  She  was  sort 
ing  them  slowly  into  three  heaps. 

"Why,  I  do  declare  if  you  haven't  got 
a  rose  in  bloom  yourself!  "  exclaimed  Miss 
Pendexter  abruptly,  as  if  the  bud  had  not 
been  announced  weeks  before,  and  its  pro- 


132  THE    ONLY  ROSE. 

gress  regularly  commented  upon.     "Ain't  it 
a  lovely  rose?     Why,  Mis'  Bickford!  " 

"Yes  'm,  it 's  out  to-day,"  said  Mrs.  Bick 
ford,  with  a  somewhat  plaintive  air.  "  I  'm 
glad  you  come  in  so  as  to  see  it." 

The  bright  flower  was  like  a  face.  Some 
how,  the  beauty  and  life  of  it  were  surpris 
ing  in  the  plain  room,  like  a  gay  little  child 
who  might  suddenly  appear  in  a  doorway. 
Miss  Pendexter  forgot  herself  and  her  host 
ess  and  the  tangled  mass  of  garden  flowers 
in  looking  at  the  red  rose.  She  even  forgot 
that  it  was  incumbent  upon  her  to  carry  for 
ward  the  conversation.  Mrs.  Bickford  was 
subject  to  fits  of  untimely  silence  which 
made  her  friends  anxiously  sweep  the  cor 
ners  of  their  minds  in  search  of  something  to 
say,  but  any  one  who  looked  at  her  now  could 
easily  see  that  it  was  not  poverty  of  thought 
that  made  her  speechless,  but  an  overbur 
dening  sense  of  the  inexpressible. 

"Goin'  to  make  up  all  your  flowers  into 
bo'quets?  I  think  the  short-stemmed  kinds 
is  often  pretty  in  a  dish,"  suggested  Miss 
Pendexter  compassionately. 

"  I  thought  I  should  make  them  into  three 
bo'quets.  I  wish  there  wa'n't  quite  so  many. 
Sister  Eliza  's  very  lavish  with  her  flowers; 


THE    ONLY  ROSE.  133 

she  's  always  been  a  kind  sister,  too,"  said 
Mrs.  Bickford  vaguely.  She  was  not  apt  to 
speak  with  so  much  sentiment,  and  as  her 
neighbor  looked  at  her  narrowly  she  detected 
unusual  signs  of  emotion.  It  suddenly  be 
came  evident  that  the  three  nosegays  were 
connected  in  her  mind  with  her  bereave 
ment  of  three  husbands,  and  Miss  Pendex- 
ter's  easily  roused  curiosity  was  quieted  by 
the  discovery  that  her  friend  was  bent  upon 
a  visit  to  the  bury  ing-ground.  It  was  the 
time  of  year  when  she  was  pretty  sure  to 
spend  an  afternoon  there,  and  sometimes 
they  had  taken  the  walk  in  company.  Miss 
Pendexter  expected  to  receive  the  usual  in 
vitation,  but  there  was  nothing  further  said 
at  the  moment,  and  she  looked  again  at  the 
pretty  rose. 

Mrs.  Bickford  aimlessly  handled  the  syrin- 
gas  and  flowering  almond  sprays,  choosing 
them  out  of  the  fragrant  heap  only  to  lay 
them  down  again.  She  glanced  out  of  the 
window;  then  gave  Miss  Pendexter  a  long 
expressive  look. 

"I  expect  you  're  going  to  carry  'em  over 
to  the  .bury  ing-ground?  "  inquired  the  guest, 
in  a  sympathetic  tone. 

"Yes  'm,"    said   the    hostess,    now   well 


134  THE   ONLY  ROSE. 

started  in  conversation  and  in  quite  her 
every-day  manner.  "You  see  I  was  goin' 
over  to  my  brother's  folks  to-morrow  in 
South  Fairfield,  to  pass  the  day;  they  said 
they  were  goin'  to  send  over  to-morrow 
to  leave  a  wagon  at  the  blacksmith's,  and 
they  'd  hitch  that  to  their  best  chaise,  so 
I  could  ride  back  very  comfortable.  You 
know  I  have  to  avoid  bein'  out  in  the  mornin' 
sun?" 

Miss  Pendexter  smiled  to  herself  at  this 
moment ;  she  was  obliged  to  move  from  her 
chair  at  the  window,  the  May  sun  was  so 
hot  on  her  back,  for  Mrs.  Bickford  always 
kept  the  curtains  rolled  high  up,  out  of  the 
way,  for  fear  of  fading  and  dust.  The 
kitchen  was  a  blaze  of  light.  As  for  the 
Sunday  chaise  being  sent,  it  was  well  known 
that  Mrs.  Bickford 's  married  brothers  and 
sisters  comprehended  the  truth  that  she  was 
a  woman  of  property,  and  had  neither  chick 
nor  child. 

"So  I  thought  't  was  a  good  opportunity 
to  just  stop  an'  see  if  the  lot  was  in  good 
order,  — last  spring  Mr.  Wallis's  stone  hove 
with  the  frost;  an'  so  I  could  take  these 
flowers."  She  gave  a  sigh.  "I  ain't  one 
that  can  bear  flowers  in  a  close  room,  —  they 


THE   ONLY  ROSE.  135 

bring  on  a  headache;  but  I  enjoy  'em  as 
much  as  anybody  to  look  at,  only  you  never 
know  what  to  put  'em  in.  If  I  could  be  out 
in  the  mornin'  sun,  as  some  do,  and  keep 
flowers  in  the  house,  I  should  have  me  a 
gardin,  certain,"  and  she  sighed  again. 

"A  garden  's  a  sight  o'  care,  but  I  don't 
begrudge  none  o'  the  care  I  give  to  mine.  I 
have  to  scant  on  flowers  so  's  to  make  room 
for  pole  beans,"  said  Miss  Pendexter  gayly. 
She  had  only  a  tiny  strip  of  land  behind  her 
house,  but  she  always  had  something  to  give 
away,  and  made  riches  out  of  her  narrow 
poverty.  "A  few  flowers  gives  me  just  as 
much  pleasure  as  more  would,"  she  added. 
"  You  get  acquainted  with  things  when 
you  've  only  got  one  or  two  roots.  My 
sweet-williams  is  just  like  folks." 

"Mr.  Bickford  was  partial  to  sweet-wil 
liams,"  said  Mrs.  Bickford.  "I  never  knew 
him  to  take  notice  of  no  other  sort  of  flow 
ers.  When  we  'd  be  over  to  Eliza's,  he  'd 
walk  down  her  gardin,  an'  he  'd  never  make 
no  comments  until  he  come  to  them,  and 
then  he  'd  say,  '  Those  is  sweet-williams. ' 
How  many  times  I  've  heard  him!  " 

"You  ought  to  have  a  sprig  of  'em  for  his 
bo'quet,"  suggested  Miss  Pendexter. 


136  THE    ONLY  ROSE. 

"Yes,  I  've  put  a  sprig  in,"  said  her  com 
panion. 

At  this  moment  Miss  Pendexter  took  a 
good  look  at  the  bouquets,  and  found  that 
they  were  as  nearly  alike  as  careful  hands 
could  make  them.  Mrs.  Bickford  was  evi 
dently  trying  to  reach  absolute  impartiality. 

"I  don't  know  but  you  think  it  's  foolish 
to  tie  'em  up  this  afternoon,"  she  said  pres 
ently,  as  she  wound  the  first  with  a  stout 
string.  "I  thought  I  could  put  'em  in  a 
bucket  o'  water  out  in  the  shed,  where  there  's 
a  draught  o'  air,  and  then  I  should  have  all 
my  time  in  the  morning.  I  shall  have  a 
good  deal  to  do  before  I  go.  I  always  sweep 
the  setting-room  and  front  entry  Wednes 
days.  I  want  to  leave  everything  nice,  goin' 
away  for  all  day  so.  So  I  meant  to  get  the 
flowers  out  o'  the  way  this  afternoon.  Why, 
it's  most  half  past  four,  ain't  it?  But  I 
sha'n't  pick  the  rose  till  mornin' ;  't  will  be 
bio  wed  out  better  then." 

"The  rose?"  questioned  Miss  Pendexter. 
"Why,  are  you  goin'  to  pick  that,  too?  " 

"Yes,  I  be.  I  never  like  to  let  'em  fade 
on  the  bush.  There,  that  *s  just  what 's 
a-troublin'  me,"  and  she  turned  to  give  a 
long,  imploring  look  at  the  friend  who  sat 


THE    ONLY  ROSE.  137 

beside  her.  Miss  Pendexter  had  moved  her 
chair  before  the  table  in  order  to  be  out 
of  the  way  of  the  sun.  "I  don't  seem  to 
know  which  of  'em  ought  to  have  it,"  said 
Mrs.  Bickford  despondently.  "I  do  so  hate 
to  make  a  choice  between  'em;  they  all  had 
their  good  points,  especially  Mr.  Bickford, 
and  I  respected  'em  all.  I  don't  know  but 
what  I  think  of  one  on  'em  'most  as  much 
as  I  do  of  the  other." 

"Why,  'tis  difficult  for  you,  ain't  it?" 
responded  Miss  Pendexter.  "  I  don't  know  's 
I  can  offer  advice." 

"No,  I  s'pose  not,"  answered  her  friend 
slowly,  with  a  shadow  of  disappointment 
coming  over  her  calm  face.  "  I  feel  sure  you 
would  if  you  could,  Abby." 

Both  of  the  women  felt  as  if  they  were 
powerless  before  a  great  emergency. 

"There's  one  thing, — they're  all  in  a 
better  world  now,"  said  Miss  Pendexter,  in 
a  self-conscious  and  constrained  voice ;  "  they 
can't  feel  such  little  things  or  take  note  o' 
slights  same  's  we  can." 

"No;  I  suppose  'tis  myself  that  wants  to 
be  just,"  answered  Mrs.  Bickford.  "I  feel 
under  obligations  to  my  last  husband  when  I 
look  about  and  see  how  comfortable  he  left 


138  THE    ONLY  ROSE. 

me.  Poor  Mr.  Wallis  had  his  great  pro 
jects,  an'  perhaps  if  he  'd  lived  longer  he  'd 
have  made  a  record ;  but  when  he  died  he  'd 
failed  all  up,  owing  to  that  patent  corn- 
sheller  he  'd  put  everything  into,  and,  as  you 
know,  I  had  to  get  along  'most  any  way  I 
could  for  the  next  few  years.  Life  was  very 
disappointing  with  Mr.  Wallis,  but  he  meant 
well,  an'  used  to  be  an  amiable  person  to 
dwell  with,  until  his  temper  got  spoilt  mak- 
in'  so  many  hopes  an'  havin'  'em  turn  out 
failures.  He  had  consider'ble  of  an  air, 
an'  dressed  very  handsome  when  I  was  first 
acquainted  with  him,  Mr.  Wallis  did.  I 
don't  know  's  you  ever  knew  Mr.  Wallis  in 
his  prime?  " 

"He  died  the  year  I  moved  over  here  from 
North  Denfield,"  said  Miss  Pendexter,  in 
a  tone  of  sympathy.  "I  just  knew  him  by 
sight.  I  was  to  his  funeral.  You  know  you 
lived  in  what  we  call  the  Wells  house  then, 
and  I  felt  it  would  n't  be  an  intrusion,  we 
was  such  near  neighbors.  The  first  time  I 
ever  was  in  your  house  was  just  before  that, 
when  he  was  sick,  an'  Mary  'Becca  Wade 
an'  I  called  to  see  if  there  was  anything  we 
could  do." 

"They  used  to  say  about  town  that  Mr. 


THE    ONLY  ROSE.  139 

Wallis  went  to  an'  fro  like  a  mail-coach  an' 
brought  nothin'  to  pass,"  announced  Mrs. 
Bickford  without  bitterness.  "He  ought  to 
have  had  a  better  chance  than  he  did  in  this 
little  neighborhood.  You  see,  he  had  ex 
cellent  ideas,  but  he  never  'd  learned  the 
machinist's  trade,  and  there  was  somethin' 
the  matter  with  every  model  he  contrived. 
I  used  to  be  real  narrow-minded  when  he 
talked  about  moving  'way  up  to  Lowell,  or 
some  o'  them  places;  I  hated  to  think  of 
leaving  my  folks;  and  now  I  see  that  I 
never  done  right  by  him.  His  ideas  was 
good.  I  know  once  he  was  on  a  jury,  and 
there  was  a  man  stopping  to  the  tavern 
where  he  was,  near  the  court  house,  a  man 
that  traveled  for  a  firm  to  Lowell ;  and  they 
engaged  in  talk,  an'  Mr.  Wallis  let  out  some 
o'  his  notions  an'  contrivances,  an'  he  said 
that  man  would  n't  hardly  stop  to  eat,  he 
was  so  interested,  an'  said  he  'd  look  for  a 
chance  for  him  up  to  Lowell.  It  all  sounded 
so  well  that  I  kind  of  begun  to  think  about 
goin'  myself.  Mr.  Wallis  said  we  'd  close 
the  house  here,  and  go  an'  board  through  the 
winter.  But  he  never  heard  a  word  from 
him,  and  the  disappointment  was  one  he 
never  got  over.  I  think  of  it  now  different 


140  THE    ONLY  ROSE. 

from  what  I  did  then.  I  often  used  to  be 
kind  of  disapproving  to  Mr.  Wallis;  but 
there,  he  used  to  be  always  tellin'  over  his 
great  projects.  Somebody  told  me  once  that 
a  man  by  the  same  name  of  the  one  he  met 
while  he  was  to  court  had  got  some  patents 
for  the  very  things  Mr.  Wallis  used  to  be 
workin'  over;  but  't  was  after  he  died,  an' 
I  don't  know  's  't  was  in  him  to  ever  really 
set  things  up  so  other  folks  could  ha'  seen 
their  value.  His  machines  always  used  to 
work  kind  of  rickety,  but  folks  used  to 
come  from  all  round  to  see  'em;  they  was 
curiosities  if  they  wa'n't  nothin'  else,  an' 
gave  him  a  name." 

Mrs.  Bickford  paused  a  moment,  with 
some  geranium  leaves  in  her  hand,  and 
seemed  to  suppress  with  difficulty  a  desire  to 
speak  even  more  freely. 

"He  was  a  dreadful  notional  man,"  she 
said  at  last,  regretfully,  and  as  if  this  fact 
were  a  poor  substitute  for  what  had  just 
been  in  her  mind.  "I  recollect  one  time 
he  worked  all  through  the  early  winter  over 
my  churn,  an'  got  it  so  it  would  go  three 
quarters  of  an  hour  all  of  itself  if  you 
wound  it  up;  an'  if  you'll  believe  it,  he 
went  an'  spent  all  that  time  for  nothin' 


THE    ONLY  ROSE..  141 

when  the  cow  was  dry,  an'  we  was  with  dif 
ficulty  borrowin'  a  pint  o'  milk  a  day  some- 
wheres  in  the  neighborhood  just  to  get  along 
with."  Mrs.  Bickford  flushed  with  dis 
pleasure,  and  turned  to  look  at  her  visitor. 
"Now  what  do  you  think  of  such  a  man  as 
that,  Miss  Pendexter?"  she  asked. 

"Why,  I  don't  know  but  'twas  just  as 
good  for  an  invention,"  answered  Miss  Pen- 
dexter  timidly ;  but  her  friend  looked  doubt 
ful,  and  did  not  appear  to  understand. 

"  Then  I  asked  him  where  it  was,  one  day 
that  spring  when  I  'd  got  tired  to  death 
churnin',  an'  the  butter  wouldn't  come  in  a 
churn  I  'd  had  to  borrow,  and  he  'd  gone  an' 
took  ours  all  to  pieces  to  get  the  works  to 
make  some  other  useless  contrivance  with. 
He  had  no  sort  of  a  business  turn,  but  he 
was  well  meanin',  Mr.  Wallis  was,  an'  full 
o'  divertin'  talk;  they  used  to  call  him  very 
good  company.  I  see  now  that  he  never  had 
no  proper  chance.  I  've  always  regretted 
Mr.  Wallis,"  said  she  who  was  now  the 
widow  Bickford. 

"I  'm  sure  you  always  speak  well  of  him," 
said  Miss  Pendexter.  "  'T  was  a  pity  he 
had  n't  got  among  good  business  men,  who 
could  push  his  inventions  an'  do  all  the 
business  part." 


142  THE    ONLY  ROSE. 

"I  was  left  very  poor  an'  needy  for  them 
next  few  years,"  said  Mrs.  Bickford  mourn 
fully;  "but  lie  never  'd  give  up  but  what  he 
should  die  worth  his  fifty  thousand  dollars. 
I  don't  see  now  how  I  ever  did  get  along 
them  next  few  years  without  him ;  but  there, 
I  always  managed  to  keep  a  pig,  an'  sister 
Eliza  gave  me  my  potatoes,  and  I  made  out 
somehow.  I  could  dig  me  a  few  greens,  you 
know,  in  spring,  and  then  't  would  come 
strawberry-time,  and  other  berries  a-follow- 
in'  on.  I  was  always  decent  to  go  to  meet- 
in'  till  within  the  last  six  months,  an'  then 
I  went  in  bad  weather,  when  folks  wouldn't 
notice;  but  'twas  a  rainy  summer,  an'  I 
managed  to  get  considerable  preachin'  after 
all.  My  clothes  looked  proper  enough  when 
't  was  a  wet  Sabbath.  I  often  think  o' 
them  pinched  days  now,  when  I  'm  left  so 
comfortable  by  Mr.  Bickford." 

"Yes  'm,  you  've  everything  to  be  thank 
ful  for,"  said  Miss  Pendexter,  who  was  as 
poor  herself  at  that  moment  as  her  friend 
had  ever  been,  and  who  could  never  dream 
of  venturing  upon  the  support  and  compan 
ionship  of  a  pig.  "Mr.  Bickford  was  a  very 
personable  man,"  she  hastened  to  say,  the 
confidences  were  so  intimate  and  interesting. 


THE    ONLY  ROSE.  143 

"Oh,  very,"  replied  Mrs.  Bickford; 
"there  was  something  about  him  that  was 
very  marked.  Strangers  would  always  ask 
who  he  was  as  he  come  into  meetin'.  His 
words  counted;  he  never  spoke  except  he 
had  to.  'T  was  a  relief  at  first  after  Mr. 
Wallis's  being  so  fluent;  but  Mr.  Wallis 
was  splendid  company  for  winter  evenings, 
-  'twould  be  eight  o'clock  before  you  knew 
it.  I  didn't  use  to  listen  to  it  all,  but  he 
had  a  great  deal  of  information.  Mr.  Bick 
ford  was  dreadful  dignified;  I  used  to  be 
sort  of  meechin'  with  him  along  at  the  first, 
for  fear  he  'd  disapprove  of  me;  but  I^>uiid 
out  'twa'n't  no  need;  he  was  always  just 
that  way,  an'  done  everything  by  rule  an' 
measure.  He  had  n't  the  mind  of  my  other 
husbands,  but  he  was  a  very  dignified  ap 
pearing  man;  he  used  'most  always  to  sleep 
in  the  evenin's,  Mr.  Bickford  did." 

"Them  is  lovely  bo' quets,  certain!"  ex 
claimed  Miss  Pendexter.  "Why,  I  could  n't 
tell  'em  apart;  the  flowers  are  comin'  out 
just  right,  are  n't  they?  " 

Mrs.  Bickford  nodded  assent,  and  then, 
startled  by  sudden  recollection,  she  cast  a 
quick  glance  at  the  rose  in  the  window. 

"  I  always  seem  to  forget  about  your  first 


144  THE    ONLY  ROSE. 

husband,  Mr.  Fraley,"  Miss  Pendexter  sug 
gested  bravely.  "  I  've  often  heard  you 
speak  of  him,  too,  but  he  'd  passed  away 
long  before  I  ever  knew  you." 

"He  was  but  a  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Bick- 
ford.  "I  thought  the  world  was  done  for 
me  when  he  died,  but  I  've  often  thought 
since  'twas  a  mercy  for  him.  He  come  of  a 
very  melancholy  family,  and  all  his  bro 
thers  an'  sisters  enjoyed  poor  health;  it 
might  have  been  his  lot.  Folks  said  we  was 
as  pretty  a  couple  as  ever  come  into  church ; 
we  was  both  dark,  with  black  eyes  an'  a  good 
deal  o'  color, — you  wouldn't  expect  it  to 
see  me  now.  Albert  was  one  that  held  up 
his  head,  and  looked  as  if  he  meant  to  own 
the  town,  an'  he  had  a  good  word  for  every 
body.  I  don't  know  what  the  years  might 
have  brought." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Mrs.  Bickford 
leaned  over  to  pick  up  a  heavy-headed  Guel 
der-rose  that  had  dropped  on  the  floor. 

"I  expect  'twas  what  they  call  fallin'  in 
love,"  she  added,  in  a  different  tone;  "he 
wa'n't  nothin'  but  a  boy,  an'  I  wa'n't  no- 
thin'  but  a  girl,  but  we  was  dreadful  happy. 
He  did  n't  favor  his  folks,  —  they  all  had 
hay-colored  hair  and  was  faded-looking,  ex- 


THE    ONLY  ROSE.  145 

cept  his  mother ;  they  was  alike,  and  looked 
alike,  an'  set  everything  by  each  other.  He 
was  just  the  kind  of  strong,  hearty  young 
man  that  goes  right  off  if  they  get  a  fever. 
We  was  just  settled  on  a  little  farm,  an' 
he 'd  have  done  well  if  he'd  had  time;  as 
it  was,  he  left  debts.  He  had  a  hasty  tem 
per,  that  was  his  great  fault,  but  Albert  had 
a  lovely  voice  to  sing;  they  said  there  wa'n't 
no  such  tenor  voice  in  this  part  o'  the  State. 
I  could  hear  him  singin'  to  himself  right  out 
in  the  field  a-ploughin'  or  hoein',  an'  he 
did  n't  know  it  half  o'  the  time,  no  more  'n 
a  common  bird  would.  I  don't  know  's  I 
valued  his  gift  as  I  ought  to,  but  there  was 
nothin'  ever  sounded  so  sweet  to  me.  I 
ain't  one  that  ever  had  much  fancy,  but  I 
knowed  Albert  had  a  pretty  voice." 

Mrs.  Bickford's  own  voice  trembled  a 
little,  but  she  held  up  the  last  bouquet  and 
examined  it  critically.  "I  must  hurry  now 
an'  put  these  in  water,"  she  said,  in  a  mat 
ter  of  fact  tone.  Little  Miss  Pendexter  was 
so  quiet  and  sympathetic  that  her  hostess 
felt  no  more  embarrassed  than  if  she  had 
been  talking  only  to  herself. 

"Yes,  they  do  seem  to  droop  some;  'tis 
a  little  warm  for  them  here  in  the  sun,"  said 


146  THE    ONLY   ROSE. 

Miss  Pendexter ;  "but  you  '11  find  they  '11  all 
come  up  if  you  give  them  their  fill  o'  water. 
They'll  look  very  handsome  to-morrow; 
folks  '11  notice  them  from  the  road.  You  've 
arranged  them  very  tasty,  Mis'  Bickford." 

"They  do  look  pretty,  don't  they?" 
Mrs.  Bickford  regarded  the  three  in  turn. 
"  I  want  to  have  them  all  pretty.  You  may 
deem  it  strange,  Abby." 

"Why,  no,  Mis'  Bickford,"  said  the  guest 
sincerely,  although  a  little  perplexed  by  the 
solemnity  of  the  occasion.  "I  know  how 
'tis  with  friends, — that  having  one  don't 
keep  you  from  wantin'  another;  'tis  just 
like  havin'  somethin'  to  eat,  and  then  want- 
in'  somethin'  to  drink  just  the  same.  I  ex 
pect  all  friends  find  their  places." 

But  Mrs.  Bickford  was  not  interested 
in  this  figure,  and  still  looked  vague  and 
anxious  as  she  began  to  brush  the  broken 
stems  and  wilted  leaves  into  her  wide  calico 
apron.  "I  done  the  best  I  could  while  they 
was  alive,"  she  said,  "  and  mourned  'em 
when  I  lost  'em,  an'  I  feel  grateful  to  be 
left  so  comfortable  now  when  all  is  over.  It 
seems  foolish,  but  I  'm  still  at  a  loss  about 
that  rose." 

"Perhaps  you  '11  feel  sure  when  you  first 


THE    ONLY  ROSE.  147 

wake  up  in  the  morning,"  answered  Miss 
Pendexter  solicitously.  "It 's  a  case  where 
I  don't  deem  myself  qualified  to  offer  you 
any  advice.  But  I  '11  say  one  thing,  see 
ing  's  you  've  been  so  friendly  spoken  and 
confiding  with  me.  I  never  was  married 
myself,  Mis'  Bickford,  because  it  wa'n't  so 
that  I  could  have  the  one  I  liked." 

"I  suppose  he  ain't  livin',  then?  Why, 
I  wan't  never  aware  you  had  met  with 
a  disappointment,  Abby,"  said  Mrs.  Bick 
ford  instantly.  None  of  her  neighbors  had 
ever  suspected  little  Miss  Pendexter  of  a 
romance. 

"Yes  'm,  he  's  livin',"  replied  Miss  Pen 
dexter  humbly.  "  No  'm,  I  never  have  heard 
that  he  died." 

"I  want  to  know!  "  exclaimed  the  woman 
of  experience.  "Well,  I'll  tell  you  this, 
Abby :  you  may  have  regretted  your  lot,  and 
felt  lonesome  and  hardshipped,  but  they  all 
have  their  faults,  and  a  single  woman  's  got 
her  liberty,  if  she  ain't  got  other  blessin's." 

"  'T  would  n't  have  been  my  choice  to  live 
alone,"  said  Abby,  meeker  than  before.  "I 
feel  very  thankful  for  my  blessin's,  all  the 
same.  You  've  always  been  a  kind  neigh 
bor,  Mis'  Bickford." 


148  THE    ONLY  ROSE. 

"Why  can't  you  stop  to  tea?"  asked  the 
elder  woman,  with  unusual  cordiality;  but 
Miss  Pendexter  remembered  that  her  host 
ess  often  expressed  a  dislike  for  unexpected 
company,  and  promptly  took  her  departure 
after  she  had  risen  to  go,  glancing  up  at  the 
bright  flower  as  she  passed  outside  the  win 
dow.  It  seemed  to  belong  most  to  Albert, 
but  she  had  not  liked  to  say  so.  The  sun 
was  low;  the  green  fields  stretched  away 
southward  into  the  misty  distance. 

II. 

Mrs.  Bickford's  house  appeared  to  watch 
her  out  of  sight  down  the  road,  the  next 
morning.  She  had  lost  all  spirit  for  her 
holiday.  Perhaps  it  was  the  unusual  ex 
citement  of  the  afternoon's  reminiscences, 
or  it  might  have  been  simply  the  bright 
moonlight  night  which  had  kept  her  broad 
awake  until  dawn,  thinking  of  the  past,  and 
more  and  more  concerned  about  the  rose. 
By  this  time  it  had  ceased  to  be  merely  a 
flower,  and  had  become  a  definite  symbol 
and  assertion  of  personal  choice.  She  found 
it  very  difficult  to  decide.  So  much  of  her 
present  comfort  and  well-being  was  due  to 
Mr.  Bickford;  still,  it  was  Mr.  Wallis  who 


THE    ONLY  ROSE.  149 

had  been  most  unfortunate,  and  to  whom  she 
had  done  least  justice.  If  she  owed  recog 
nition  to  Mr.  Bickford,  she  certainly  owed 
amends  to  Mr.  Wallis.  If  she  gave  him  the 
rose,  it  would  be  for  the  sake  of  affectionate 
apology.  And  then  there  was  Albert,  to 
whom  she  had  no  thought  of  being  either  in 
debted  or  forgiving.  But  she  could  not  es 
cape  from  the  terrible  feeling  of  indecision. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning  for  a  drive, 
but  Mrs.  Bickford  was  kept  waiting  some 
time  for  the  chaise.  Her  nephew,  who  was 
to  be  her  escort,  had  found  much  social  ad 
vantage  at  the  blacksmith's  shop,  so  that  it 
was  after  ten  when  she  finally  started  with 
the  three  large  flat-backed  bouquets,  covered 
with  a  newspaper  to  protect  them  from  the 
sun.  The  petals  of  the  almond  flowers  were 
beginning  to  scatter,  and  now  and  then  little 
streams  of  water  leaked  out  of  the  newspaper 
and  trickled  down  the  steep  slope  of  her  best 
dress  to  the  bottom  of  the  chaise.  Even  yet 
she  had  not  made  up  her  mind;  she  had 
stopped  trying  to  deal  with  such  an  evasive 
thing  as  decision,  and  leaned  back  and  rested 
as  best  she  could. 

"What  an  old  fool  I  be!"  she  rebuked 
herself  from  time  to  time,  in  so  loud  a  whis- 


150  THE    ONLY  ROSE. 

per  that  her  companion  ventured  a  respectful 
"What,  ma'am?"  and  was  astonished  that 
she  made  no  reply.  John  was  a  handsome 
young  man,  but  Mrs.  Bickford  could  never 
cease  thinking  of  him  as  a  boy.  He  had 
always  been  her  favorite  among  the  younger 
members  of  the  family,  and  now  returned 
this  affectionate  feeling,  being  possessed  of 
an  instinctive  confidence  in  the  sincerities 
of  his  prosaic  aunt. 

As  they  drove  along,  there  had  seemed 
at  first  to  be  something  unsympathetic  and 
garish  about  the  beauty  of  the  summer  day. 
After  the  shade  and  shelter  of  the  house, 
Mrs.  Bickford  suffered  even  more  from  a 
contracted  and  assailed  feeling  out  of  doors. 
The  very  trees  by  the  roadside  had  a  curi 
ously  fateful,  trying  way  of  standing  back  to 
watch  her,  as  she  passed  in  the  acute  agony 
of  indecision,  and  she  was  annoyed  and 
startled  by  a  bird  that  flew  too  near  the 
chaise  in  a  moment  of  surprise.  She  was  con 
scious  of  a  strange  reluctance  to  the  move 
ment  of  the  Sunday  chaise,  as  if  she  were 
being  conveyed  against  her  will;  but  the 
companionship  of  her  nephew  John  grew 
every  moment  to  be  more  and  more  a  reli 
ance.  It  was  very  comfortable  to  sit  by  his 


THE    ONLY  ROSE.  151 

side,  even  though  he  had  nothing  to  say;  he 
was  manly  and  cheerful,  and  she  began  to 
feel  protected. 

"  Aunt  Bickford, "  he  suddenly  announced, 
"I  may  's  well  out  with  it!  I've  got  a 
piece  o'  news  to  tell  you,  if  you  won't  let  on 
to  nobody.  I  expect  you  '11  laugh,  but  you 
know  I  've  set  everything  by  Mary  Lizzie 
Gifford  ever  since  I  was  a  boy.  Well,  sir !  " 

"  Well,  sir !  "  exclaimed  aunt  Bickford 
in  her  turn,  quickly  roused  into  most  com 
fortable  self-forgetfulness.  "  I  am  really 
pleased.  She  '11  make  you  a  good,  smart 
wife,  John.  Ain't  all  the  folks  pleased, 
both  sides?" 

"Yes,  they  be,"  answered  John  soberly, 
with  a  happy,  important  look  that  became 
him  well. 

"I  guess  I  can  make  out  to  do  something 
for  you  to  help  along,  when  the  right  time 
comes,"  said  aunt  Bickford  impulsively, 
after  a  moment's  reflection.  "I've  known 
what  it  is  to  be  starting  out  in  life  with 
plenty  o'  hope.  You  ain't  calculatin'  on 
gettin'  married  before  fall,  — or  be  ye?  " 

"'Long  in  the  fall,"  said  John  regret 
fully.  "I  wish  t'  we  could  set  up  for  our 
selves  right  away  this  summer.  I  ain't  got 


152  THE    ONLY  ROSE. 

much  ahead,  but  I  can  work  well  as  any 
body,  an'  now  I  'm  out  o'  my  time." 

"She's  a  nice,  modest,  pretty  girl.  I 
thought  she  liked  you,  John,"  said  the  old 
aunt.  "I  saw  her  over  to  your  mother's, 
last  day  I  was  there.  Well,  I  expect  you  '11 
be  happy." 

"Certain,"  said  John,  turning  to  look  at 
her  affectionately,  surprised  by  this  out 
spokenness  and  lack  of  embarrassment  be 
tween  them.  "Thank  you,  aunt,"  he  said 
simply  ;  "  you  're  a  real  good  friend  to 
me;  "  and  he  looked  away  again  hastily,  and 
blushed  a  fine  scarlet  over  his  sun -browned 
face.  "  She  's  coming  over  to  spend  the  day 
with  the  girls, "  he  added.  "  Mother  thought 
of  it.  You  don't  get  over  to  see  us  very 
often." 

Mrs.  Bickford  smiled  approvingly.  John's 
mother  looked  for  her  good  opinion,  no 
doubt,  but  it  was  very  proper  for  John  to 
have  told  his  prospects  himself,  and  in  such 
a  pretty  way.  There  was  no  shilly-shallying 
about  the  boy. 

"  My  gracious  ! "  said  John  suddenly. 
"I  'd  like  to  have  drove  right  by  the  bury- 
ing-ground.  I  forgot  we  wanted  to  stop." 

Strange  as  it  may  appear,  Mrs.  Bickford 


THE    ONLY  ROSE.  153 

herself  had  not  noticed  the  bury  ing-ground, 
either,  in  her  excitement  and  pleasure ;  now 
she  felt  distressed  and  responsible  again, 
and  showed  it  in  her  face  at  once.  The 
young  man  leaped  lightly  to  the  ground,  and 
reached  for  the  flowers. 

"Here,  you  just  let  me  run  up  with  'em," 
he  said  kindly.  "  'T  is  hot  in  the  sun 
to-day,  an'  you  '11  mind  it  risin'  the  hill. 
We  '11  stop  as  I  fetch  you  back  to-night, 
and  you  can  go  up  comfortable  an'  walk  the 
yard  after  sundown  when  it 's  cool,  an'  stay 
as  long  as  you  're  a  mind  to.  You  seem 
sort  of  tired,  aunt." 

"I  don't  know  but  what  I  will  let  you 
carry  'em,"  said  Mrs.  Bickford  slowly. 

To  leave  the  matter  of  the  rose  in  the 
hands  of  fate  seemed  weakness  and  coward 
ice,  but  there  was  not  a  moment  for  consid 
eration.  John  was  a  smiling  fate,  and  his 
proposition  was  a  great  relief.  She  watched 
him  go  away  with  a  terrible  inward  shaking, 
and  sinking  of  pride.  She  had  held  the 
flowers  with  so  firm  a  grasp  that  her  hands 
felt  weak  and  numb,  and  as  she  leaned  back 
and  shut  her  eyes  she  was  afraid  to  open 
them  again  at  first  for  fear  of  knowing  the 
bouquets  apart  even  at  that  distance,  and 


154  THE    ONLY  ROSE. 

giving  instructions  which  she  might  regret. 
With  a  sudden  impulse  she  called  John  once 
or  twice  eagerly ;  but  her  voice  had  a  thin 
and  piping  sound,  and  the  meditative  early 
crickets  that  chirped  in  the  fresh  summer 
grass  probably  sounded  louder  in  John's 
ears.  The  bright  light  on  the  white  stones 
dazzled  Mrs.  Bickford's  eyes;  and  then  all 
at  once  she  felt  light-hearted,  and  the  sky 
seemed  to  lift  itself  higher  and  wider  from 
the  earth,  and  she  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  as 
her  messenger  came  back  along  the  path. 
"I  know  who  I  do  hope  's  got  the  right 
one,"  she  said  to  herself.  "There,  what  a 
touse  I  be  in!  I  don't  see  what  I  had  to 
go  and  pick  the  old  rose  for,  anyway." 

"I  declare,  they  did  look  real  handsome, 
aunt,"  said  John's  hearty  voice  as  he  ap 
proached  the  chaise.  "I  set  'em  up  just  as 
you  told  me.  This  one  fell  out,  an'  I  kept 
it.  I  don't  know  's  you  '11  care.  I  can  give 
it  to  Lizzie." 

He  faced  her  now  with  a  bright,  boyish 
look.  There  was  something  gay  in  his  but 
tonhole,  —  it  was  the  red  rose. 

Aunt  Bickf  ord  blushed  like  a  girl.  "  Your 
choice  is  easy  made,"  she  faltered  mysteri- 


THE    ONLY  ROSE.  155 

ously,  and  then  burst  out  laughing,  there  in 
front  of  the  bury  ing-ground.  "Come,  get 
right  in,  dear,"  she  said.  "Well,  well!  I 
guess  the  rose  was  made  for  you;  it  looks 
very  pretty  in  your  coat,  John." 

She  thought  of  Albert,  and  the  next  mo 
ment  the  tears  came  into  her  old  eyes.  John 
was  a  lover,  too. 

"My  first  husband  was  just  such  a  tall, 
straight  young  man  as  you  be,"  she  said  as 
they  drove  along.  "The  flower  he  first  give 
me  was  a  rose." 


A  SECOND  SPRING. 

i. 

THE  Haydon  farm  was  only  a  few  miles 
from  the  sea,  and  the  spring  wind,  which 
had  been  blowing  from  the  south  all  day, 
had  gone  into  the  east.  A  chilly  salt  fog 
had  begun  to  come  in,  creeping  along  where 
a  brook  wound  among  the  lower  fields,  like 
a  ghostly  serpent  that  was  making  its  way 
to  shelter  across  the  country. 

The  old  Haydon  house  stood  on  high  ris 
ing  land,  with  two  great  walnut-trees  at  one 
side,  and  a  tall,  thin,  black-looking  spruce 
in  front  that  had  lost  its  mate.  A  comfort 
able  row  of  round-headed  old  apple-trees  led 
all  the  way  up  a  long  lane  from  the  main 
road.  This  lane  and  the  spacious  side  yard 
were  scarred  by  wheel  ruts,  and  the  fresh 
turf  was  cut  up  by  the  stamping  feet  of 
many  horses.  It  was  the  evening  of  a  sad 
day, — the  evening  after  Israel  Hay  don's 
wife's  funeral.  Many  of  the  people  who 
were  present  had  far  to  go,  and  so  the 
funeral  feast  had  been  served  early. 


A    SECOND    SPRING.  157 

The  old  place  looked  deserted.  The  dan 
delions,  which  had  shone  so  bright  in  the 
grass  that  morning,  were  all  shut  up,  and 
the  syringa  bushes  in  the  front  yard  seemed 
to  have  taken  back  their  rash  buds,  and  to 
have  grown  as  gray  as  winter  again.  The 
light  was  failing  fast  out  of  doors;  there 
was  a  lamp  lighted  in  the  kitchen,  and  a 
figure  kept  passing  between  it  and  the  win 
dow. 

Israel  Haydon  lingered  as  long  as  he  could 
over  his  barn-work.  Somehow  it  seemed 
lonely  in  the  barn,  and  as  long  as  he  could 
see  or  feel  his  way  about,  he  kept  himself 
busy  over  the  old  horse  and  cow,  accepting 
their  inexpressive  companionship,  and  serv 
ing  their  suppers  with  unusual  generosity. 
His  sensations,  even  of  grief,  were  not  very 
distinct  to  him;  there  was  only  a  vague 
sense  of  discomfort,  of  being  disturbed  in 
his  quiet  course.  He  had  said  to  many 
of  his  friends  that  afternoon,  "I  do'  know 
why  't  is,  but  I  can't  realize  nothing  about 
it,"  and  spoken  sincerely;  but  his  face  was 
marked  with  deep  lines;  he  was  suffering 
deeply  from  the  great  loss  that  had  befallen 
him. 

His  wife  had  been  a  woman  of  uncom- 


158  A    SECOND    SPRING. 

moil  social  gifts  and  facilities,  and  lie  had 
missed  her  leadership  in  the  great  occasion 
that  was  just  over.  Everybody  had  come  to 
him  for  directions,  and  expected  from  him 
the  knowledge  of  practical  arrangements 
that  she  had  always  shown  in  the  forty 
years  of  their  married  life.  He  had  for 
gotten  already  that  it  was  a  worn-out  and 
suffering  woman  who  had  died ;  the  remem 
brance  of  long  weeks  of  illness  faded  from 
his  mind.  It  appeared  to  him  as  if,  in  her 
most  active  and  busy  aspect,  she  had  sud 
denly  vanished  out  of  the  emergencies  and 
close  dependence  of  their  every-day  lives. 

Mr.  Hay  don  crossed  the  yard  slowly,  after 
he  had  locked  the  barn  door  and  tried  the 
fastening,  and  then  gone  back  to  try  it 
again.  He  was  glad  to  see  the  cheerfulness 
of  the  lighted  kitchen,  and  to  remember  that 
his  own  sister  and  the  sister  of  his  wife  were 
there  in  charge  and  ready  to  companion  him. 
He  could  not  help  a  feeling  of  distress  at 
the  thought  of  entering  his  lonely  home; 
suddenly  the  fact  of  their  being  there  made 
everything  seem  worse.  Another  man  might 
have  loitered  on  the  step  until  he  was  chilly 
and  miserable,  but  poor  Mr.  Haydon  only 
dropped  his  hand  for  a  moment  by  his  side, 


A   SECOND    SPRING.  159 

and  looked  away  down  the  lane;  then,  with 
bent  head,  he  lifted  the  latch  as  he  always 
did,  and  went  in.  It  seemed  as  if  he  con 
sciously  shouldered  the  burden  of  his  loneli 
ness  in  that  dreary  moment,  and  never  could 
stand  upright  again. 

The  season  of  his  solitary  life  began 
with  more  cheer  than  could  have  been  ex 
pected.  The  two  women  were  waiting  for 
him  placidly,  and  did  not  seem  to  be  curious 
how  he  might  be  bearing  this  great  disas 
ter.  They  had  cleared  away  all  signs  of  the 
great  company,  and  the  kitchen  looked  as  it 
always  did ;  it  had  not  occurred  to  them  to 
occupy  the  more  formal  sitting-room.  The 
warmth  of  the  fire  was  pleasant ;  a  table  was 
spread  with  supper.  One  of  the  women  was 
bringing  the  teapot  from  the  stove,  and  the 
other  was  placidly  knitting  a  blue  yarn  stock 
ing.  It  seemed  as  if  Martha  Haydoii  herself 
might  at  any  moment  come  out  of  the  pan 
try  door  or  up  the  cellar  stairs. 

"  We  was  just  about  ready  for  you,  Isr'el," 
said  his  sister-in-law  Stevens,  glancing  at  him 
eagerly.  "We  did  n't  stop  to  take  anything 
ourselves  this  afternoon,  and  we  did  n't 
suppose  'twas  so  you  could;  an'  we  thought 
we  'd  just  make  a  quiet  cup  o'  tea  when  we 


160  A   SECOND    SPRING. 

had  everything  put  to  rights,  and  could  set 
down  an'  enjoy  it.  Now  you  draw  right  up 
to  the  table;  that 's  clever;  'twill  do  us  all 
good." 

The  good  woman  bore  some  likeness  to 
her  sister  just  departed;  Israel  had  never 
noticed  it  so  much  before.  She  had  a  com 
fortable,  motherly  way,  and  his  old  face 
twitched  in  spite  of  himself  as  he  bent  over 
the  brimming  and  smoking  cup  that  she 
handed  across  the  square  table. 

"I  declare!"  said  his  own  sister,  Mrs. 
Abby  Martin.  "We  could  reckon  what  a 
sight  o'  folks  there  was  here  this  afternoon 
by  the  times  we  had  to  make  new  tea,  if 
there  wa'n't  no  other  way.  I  don't  know  's 
I  ever  see  a  larger  gathering  on  such  an 
occasion.  Mis'  Stevens  an'  me  was  trying 
to  count  'em.  There  was  twenty-six  wagons 
hitched  in  the  yard  an'  lane,  so  William 
said,  besides  all  that  come  afoot  ;  an'  a 
few  had  driven  away  before  they  made  the 
count." 

"I'd  no  idea  of  there  bein'  so  many," 
said  Israel  sadly.  "Well,  'twas  natural 
for  all  who  knew  her  to  show  respect.  I  felt 
much  obliged  to  the  folks,  and  for  Elder 
Wall's  excellent  remarks." 


A   SECOND   SPRING.  1G1 

"A  number  spoke  their  approval  to  him 
in  my  hearing.  He  seemed  pleased  that 
everything  passed  off  well,"  said  sister  Mar 
tin.  "I  expect  he  wanted  to  do  the  best  he 
could.  Everybody  knows  she  was  always  a 
good  friend  to  him.  I  never  see  anybody 
that  set  so  by  her  minister.  William  was 
telling  of  me  he  'd  been  very  attentive  all 
through  her  sickness.  Poor  William !  He 
does  mourn,  but  he  behaved  very  pretty,  I 
thought.  He  wanted  us  to  tell  you  that 
he  'd  be  over  to-morrow  soon  's  he  could. 
He  wanted  dreadful  to  stop  with  ye  over 
night,  but  we  all  know  what  it  is  to  run  a 
milk  farm." 

"I'd  b'en  glad  if  'twas  so  he  could  be 
here  with  us  to-night,  an'  his  wife  with  him," 
said  the  old  man,  pushing  away  his  cup. 
The  remnants  of  the  afternoon  feast,  with 
which  the  table  was  spread,  failed  to  tempt 
his  appetite.  He  rose  and  took  his  old 
wooden  armchair  by  the  stove,  and  clasped 
his  hands  before  him.  The  long  brown  fin 
gers  began  to  play  mechanically  upon  each 
other.  It  was  strange  how  these  trivial, 
unconscious  habits  continued  in  spite  of  the 
great  change  which  had  shaken  his  life  to  its 
foundations. 


162  A   SECOND    SPRING. 

II. 

At  noon  the  next  day  Israel  Haydon  and 
his  son  William  came  up  across  the  field  to 
gether.  They  had  on  their  every-day  clothes, 
and  were  talking  about  every-day  matters 
as  they  walked  along.  Mr.  Haydon  him 
self  had  always  looked  somewhat  unlike  a 
farmer,  even  though  there  had  been  no  more 
diligent  and  successful  tiller  of  the  soil  in 
the  town  of  Atfield.  He  never  had  bought 
himself  a  rougher  suit  of  clothes  or  a  coarse 
hat  for  haying,  but  his  discarded  Sunday 
best  in  various  states  of  decadence  served 
him  for  barn  and  field.  It  was  proverbial 
that  a  silk  hat  lasted  him  five  years  for  best 
and  ten  for  common ;  but  whatever  he  might 
be  doing,  Israel  Haydon  always  preserved 
an  air  of  unmistakable  dignity.  He  was 
even  a  little  ministerial  in  his  look;  there 
had  been  a  minister  in  the  family  two  or 
three  generations  back.  Mr.  Haydon  and 
his  wife  had  each  inherited  some  money. 
They  were  by  nature  thrifty,  and  now  their 
only  son  was  well  married,  with  a  good  farm 
of  his  own,  to  which  Israel  had  added  many 
acres  of  hay  land  and  tillage,  saying  that  he 
was  getting  old,  and  was  going  to  take  the 


A   SECOND    SPRING.  163 

rest  of  his  life  easily.  In  this  way  the  old 
people  had  thrown  many  of  their  worldly 
cares  upon  their  son's  broad  shoulders. 
They  had  paid  visits  each  summer  to  their 
kindred  in  surrounding  towns,  starting  off 
in  their  Sunday  chaise  with  sober  pleasure, 
serene  in  their  prosperity,  and  free  from  any 
dark  anticipations,  although  they  could  not 
bring  themselves  to  consent  to  any  long  ab 
sence,  and  the  temptation  of  going  to  see 
friends  in  the  West  was  never  dangerous  to 
their  peace  of  mind.  But  the  best  of  their 
lives  was  apparently  still  before  them,  when 
good  Martha  Hay  don's  strength  mysteriously 
failed ;  and  one  dark  day  the  doctor,  whom 
Israel  Hay  don  had  anxiously  questioned  be 
hind  the  wood-pile,  just  out  of  sight  from  his 
wife's  window  —  the  doctor  had  said  that  she 
never  would  be  any  better.  The  downfall 
of  his  happiness  had  been  swift  and  piteous. 
William  Hay  don  was  a  much  larger  and 
rosier  man  than  his  father  had  ever  been ; 
the  old  man  looked  shrunken  as  they  crossed 
the  field  together.  They  had  prolonged  their 
talk  about  letting  the  great  south  field  lie 
fallow,  and  about  some  new  Hereford  cattle 
that  the  young  farmer  had  just  bought, 
until  nothing  more  was  left  to  say  on  either 


164  A   SECOND    SPRING. 

side.  Then  there  came  a  long  pause,  when 
each  waited  for  the  other  to  speak.  Wil 
liam  grew  impatient  at  last. 

"Have  you  got  any  notion  what  it 's  best 
to  do,  sir?"  he  began  boldly;  then,  finding 
that  his  father  did  not  answer,  he  turned  to 
look  at  him,  and  found  that  the  drawn  face 
was  set  in  silent  despair. 

"I've  always  been  forehanded;  I  never 
was  caught  so  unprepared  before,"  he  fal 
tered.  "  'T  has  been  my  way,  as  you 
know,  to  think  out  things  beforehand,  but  it 
come  to  the  very  last  before  I  could  give 
it  up  'bout  your  mother's  gettin'  better; 
an'  when  I  did  give  up,  't  wa'n't  so  I  could 
think  o'  anything.  An'  here  's  your  aunts 
got  their  families  dependin'  on  'em,  and 
wantin'  to  git  away  soon  as  may  be.  I  don't 
know  which  way  to  look." 

"Marilla  and  I  should  be  thankful  if 
you  'd  come  and  stop  'long  of  us  this  win 
ter  "  —  the  younger  man  began,  eagerly. 

"No,  no!"  said  his  father  sternly.  "I 
ain't  goin'  to  live  in  the  chimbly-corner  of 
another  man's  house.  I  ain't  but  a  little 
past  sixty-seven.  I  've  got  to  stand  in  my 
lot  an'  place.  'T  would  n't  be  neither  your 
house  nor  mine,  William,"  he  said,  in  a 


A   SECOND    SPRING.  165 

softer  tone.  "You  're  a  good  son;  your 
mother  always  said  you  was  a  good  son." 

Israel  Play  don's  voice  broke,  and  William 
Haydoii's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  they 
plodded  along  together  in  the  soft  spring 
grass. 

"I  've  gone  over  everything  I  wish  I  could 
forget  —  all  the  bothering  tricks  I  played 
her,  'way  back  when  I  was  a  boy,"  said  the 
young  man,  with  great  feeling.  "I  declare, 
I  don't  know  what  to  do,  I  miss  her  so." 

"You  was  an  only  child,"  said  the  father 
solemnly;  "we  done  the  best  we  could  by 
ye.  She  often  said  you  was  a  good  son, 
and  she  wa'n't  surprised  to  see  ye  prosper. 
An'  about  Mar  illy,  'long  at  the  first,  when 
you  was  courtin'  her,  'twas  only  that  poor 
mother  thought  nobody  wa'n't  quite  good 
enough  for  her  boy.  She  come  to  set  every 
thing  by  Marilly." 

The  only  dark  chapter  in  the  family  his 
tory  was  referred  to  for  the  last  time,  to 
be  forgotten  by  father  and  son.  The  old 
people  had,  after  all,  gloried  in  their  son's 
bravery  in  keeping  to  his  own  way  and 
choice.  The  two  farms  joined.  Mar  ilia 
and  her  mother  were  their  next  neighbors; 
the  mother  had  since  died. 


166  A   SECOND    SPRING. 

"Father,"  exclaimed  William  Hay  don 
suddenly,  as  they  neared  the  barn,  "I  do' 
know  now  but  I  've  thought  o'  the  very 
one!" 

"What  d'ye  mean?"  said  the  old  man, 
startled  a  little  by  such  vehemence. 

"'T  ain't  nobody  I  feel  sure  of  getting," 
explained  the  son,  his  ardor  suddenly  cool 
ing.  "I  had  Maria  Durrant  in  my  mind 
—  Marilla's  cousin.  Don't  you  know,  she 
come  and  stopped  with  us  six  weeks  that  time 
Marilla  was  so  dyin'  sick  and  we  hadn't 
been  able  to  get  proper  help;  and  what  a 
providence  Maria  Durrant  was!  Mother 
said  one  day  that  she  never  saw  so  capable 
a  woman." 

"I  don't  stand  in  need  of  nursin',"  said 
the  old  man,  grumbling,  and  taking  a  de 
fensive  attitude  of  mind.  "  What's  the  use, 
anyway,  if  you  can't  get  her?  I  '11  contrive 
to  get  along  somehow.  I  always  have." 

William  flushed  quickly,  but  made  no  an 
swer,  out  of  regard  to  the  old  man's  bereaved 
and  wounded  state.  He  always  felt  like  a 
schoolboy  in  his  father's  presence,  though 
he  had  for  many  years  been  a  leader  in 
neighborhood  matters,  and  was  at  that  mo 
ment  a  selectman  of  the  town  of  Atfield.  If 


A   SECOND   SPRING.  167 

lie  had  answered  back  and  entered  upon  a 
lively  argument  it  probably  would  have  done 
the  old  man  good;  anything  would  have 
seemed  better  than  the  dull  hunger  in  his 
heart,  the  impossibility  of  forming  new  hab 
its  of  life,  which  made  a  wall  about  his  very 
thoughts. 

After  a  surly  silence,  when  the  son  was 
needlessly  repentant  and  the  father's  face 
grew  cloudy  with  disapproval,  the  two  men 
parted.  William  had  made  arrangements  to 
stay  all  the  afternoon,  but  he  now  found 
an  excuse  for  going  to  the  village,  and 
drove  away  down  the  lane.  He  had  not 
turned  into  the  highroad  before  he  wished 
himself  back  again,  while  Israel  Haydoii 
looked  after  him  reproachfully,  more  lonely 
than  ever,  in  the  sense  that  something  had 
come  between  them,  though  he  could  not 
tell  exactly  what.  The  spring  fields  lay 
broad  and  green  in  the  sunshine ;  there  was 
a  cheerful  sound  of  frogs  in  the  lower 
meadow. 

"Poor  mother!  how  she  did  love  early 
weather  like  this ! "  he  said,  half  aloud. 
"She  'd  been  getting  out  to  the  door  twenty 
times  a  day,  just  to  have  a  look.  An'  how 
she  'd  laugh  to  hear  the  frogs  again!  Oh, 


168  A   SECOND    SPRING. 

poor  me !  poor  me !  "  For  the  first  time  lie 
found  himself  in  tears.  The  grim  old  man 
leaned  on  the  fence,  and  tried  to  keep  back 
the  sobs  that  shook  his  bent  shoulders.  He 
was  half  afraid  and  half  ashamed,  but  there 
he  stood  and  cried.  At  last  he  dried  his 
eyes,  and  went  slowly  into  the  house,  as  if 
in  hope  of  comfort  as  well  as  shelter. 

The  two  sisters  were  busy  in  an  upper 
room.  They  had  seen  William  Hay  don 
drive  away,  and  their  sympathy  had  been 
much  moved  by  the  sight  of  his  father's 
grief.  They  stood  at  a  window  watching 
him  from  behind  the  curtain. 

"He  feels  it  much  as  anybody  could,"  said 
Mrs.  Stevens,  not  without  a  certain  satisfac 
tion  in  this  tribute  to  her  own  dear  sister. 
"Somehow  or  'nother  your  brother  is  so 
methodical  and  contained,  Mis'  Martin,  that 
I  shouldn't  have  looked  to  see  him  give 
way  like  other  men." 

"He  never  was  one  that  could  show  his 
feelin's,"  answered  Mrs.  Martin.  "I  never 
saw  him  shed  tears  before  as  I  know  of,  but 
many  's  the  time  he  has  n't  been  able  to  con 
trol  his  voice  to  speak.  I  wonder  what  made 
William  hurry  off  so?  His  back  looked 


THE   SECOND   SPRING.  169 

kind  o'  provoked.  They  could  n't  have  had 
no  words;  whatever  it  was,  they  couldn't 
had  no  words  so  soon  as  this;  an'  William  's 
always  respectful." 

"'T  ain't  that  either,"  she  added,  a  mo 
ment  later.  "I've  seen  sights  o'  folks  in 
trouble,  and  I  don't  know  what  nor  why  it 
is,  but  they  always  have  to  get  through 
with  a  fractious  spell  before  they  can  get 
to  work  again.  They  '11  hold  up  an'  'pear 
splendid,  and  then  something  seems  to  let 
go,  an'  everything  goes  wrong,  an'  every 
word  plagues  'em.  Now  Isr'el  's  my  own 
poor  brother,  an'  you  know  how  I  set  by 
him,  Mis'  Stevens;  but  I  expect  we  '11  have 
to  walk  soft  to  get  along  with  him  for  a  week 
or  two  to  come.  Don't  you  go  an'  be  too 
gentle,  neither.  Treat  him  just 's  you  would 
anyway,  and  he  '11  fetch  himself  into  line 
the  quicker.  He  always  did  have  days  when 
he  would  n't  say  nothing  to  nobody.  It  does 
seem 's  if  I  ought  to  be  the  one  to  stop 
longer  with  him,  an'  be  the  most  help;  but 
you  know  how  I  'm  situated.  And  then 
'tis  your  sister's  things  that 's  to  be  looked 
over,  and  you  and  Marilla  is  the  proper 
ones." 

"I  wish  'twas  so  you  could  stop,"  Mrs. 


170  THE   SECOND    SPRING. 

Stevens  urged  honestly.  "I  feel  more 
acquainted  with  you  than  I  do  with  Mar  illy. 
But  I  shall  do  my  best,  as  I  shall  want  those 
who  come  to  do  for  my  things  when  I  'in 
past  an'  gone.  I  shall  get  William  to  come 
an'  help  us;  he  knows  more  about  his  mo 
ther's  possessions  than  anybody,  I  expect. 
She  made  a  kind  of  girl  of  him,  for  com 
pany's  sake,  when  he  was  little;  and  he 
used  to  sew  real  pretty  before  his  fingers  got 
too  big.  Don't  you  recall  one  winter  when 
he  was  house -bound  after  a  run  o'  scarlet 
fever?  He  used  to  work  worsted,  and  knit 
some,  I  believe  he  did ;  but  he  took  to  grow- 
in'  that  spring,  and  I  chanced  to  ask  him  to 
supply  me  with  a  couple  o'  good  holders,  but 
I  found  I  'd  touched  dignity.  He  was  dread 
ful  put  out.  I  suppose  he  was  mos'  too 
manly  for  me  to  refer  to  his  needlework. 
Poor  Marthy!  how  she  laughed!  I  only 
said  that  about  the  holders  for  the  sake 
o'  say  in'  somethin',  but  he  remembered  it 
against  me  more  than  a  year." 

The  two  aunts  laughed  together.  "Boys 
is  boys,  ain't  they  ?  "  observed  Mrs.  Stevens, 
with  great  sagacity. 

"Men  is  boys,"  retorted  Mrs.  Martin. 
"The  more  you  treat  'em  like  boys,  the  bet- 


THE    SECOND    SPRING.  171 

ter  they  think  you  use  'em.  They  always 
want  mother  in',  an'  somebody  to  come  to. 
I  always  tell  folks  I  've  got  five  child'n, 
counting  Mr.  Martin  the  youngest.  The 
more  bluster  they  have,  the  more  boys  they 
be.  Now  Marthy  knew  that  about  brother 
Isr'el,  an'  she  always  ruled  him  by  love  an' 
easin'  of  him  down  from  them  high  perches 
he  was  always  settin'  upon.  Everything 
was  always  right  with  her  an'  all  wrong 
with  him  when  they  was  young,  but  she 
could  always  say  the  right  word." 

"She  was  a  good-feelin'  woman;  she  did 
make  him  a  good  wife,  if  I  say  it  that 
shouldn't  o'  my  own  sister,"  sighed  Mrs. 
Stevens.  "  She  was  the  best  o'  housekeep 
ers,  was  Marthy.  I  never  went  over  so  neat 
a  house.  I  ain't  got  the  gift  myself.  I  can 
clear  up,  Mis'  Martin,  but  I  can't  remain 
cleared  up." 

The  two  sisters  turned  to  their  pathetic 
work  of  looking  over  the  orderly  closets 
and  making  solemn  researches  into  the  sus 
pected  shelters  of  moths.  Much  talk  of  the 
past  was  suggested  by  the  folding  of  blan 
kets;  and  as  they  set  back  the  chairs,  and 
brushed  the  floors  that  were  made  untidy 
by  the  funeral  guests  of  the  day  before, 


172  THE   SECOND    SPRING. 

they  wondered  afresh  what  would  become  of 
Israel  Haydon,  and  what  plan  he  would  make 
f or  himself ;  for  Mrs.  Martin  could  only  stay 
with  him  for  a  few  days,  and  Mrs.  Stevens 
was  obliged  to  return  as  soon  as  possible  to 
her  busy  household  and  an  invalid  daughter. 
As  long  as  they  could  stay  the  house  went 
on  as  usual,  and  Israel  Haydon  showed  no 
apprehension  of  difficulties  ahead.  He  took 
up  the  routine  of  his  simple  fashion  of  life, 
and  when  William  asked  if  he  should  bring 
his  team  to  plough,  he  received  the  surprised 
answer  that  all  those  things  were  settled 
when  they  talked  about  them  earlier  in  the 
spring.  Of  course  he  should  want  potatoes, 
and  it  was  high  time  they  were  planted.  A 
boy  arrived  from  the  back  country  who  had 
lived  at  the  farm  the  summer  before,  —  a 
willing,  thick-headed  young  person  in  pro 
cess  of  growth,  —  and  Israel  Haydon  took 
great  exception  to  his  laziness  and  inordi 
nate  appetite,  and  threatened  so  often  to 
send  him  back  where  he  came  from  that  only 
William's  insistence  that  they  had  entered 
into  an  engagement  with  poor  Thomas,  and 
the  women's  efforts  toward  reconciliation, 
prevailed. 

When  sister  Martin  finally  departed,  bag 


A    SECOND    SPRING.  173 

and  baggage,  she  felt  as  if  she  were  leav 
ing  her  brother  to  be  the  prey  of  disaster. 
He  was  sternly  self-reliant,  and  watched 
her  drive  away  down  the  lane  with  some 
thing  like  a  sense  of  relief.  The  offending 
Thomas  was  standing  by,  expecting  rebuke 
almost  with  an  air  of  interest;  but  the  old 
man  only  said  to  him,  in  an  apologetic  and 
friendly  way,  "There!  we  've  got  to  get 
along  a  spell  without  any  women  folks,  my 
son.  I  haven't  heard  of  any  housekeeper 
to  suit  me,  but  we  '11  get  along  together  till 
I  do." 

"There  's  a  great  sight  o'  things  cooked 
up,  sir,"  said  Thomas,  with  shining  eyes. 

"We  '11  get  along,"  repeated  the  old  man. 
"I  won't  have  you  take  no  liberties,  but  if 
we  save  the  time  from  other  things,  we  can 
manage  just  as  well  as  the  women.  I  want 
you  to  sweep  out  good,  night  an'  morning, 
an'  fetch  me  the  wood  an'  water,  an'  I  '11 
see  to  the  housework."  There  was  no  idea 
of  appointing  Thomas  as  keeper  of  the  pan 
try  keys,  and  a  shadow  of  foreboding  dark 
ened  the  lad's  hopeful  countenance  as  the 
master  of  the  house  walked  away  slowly  up 
the  yard. 


174  A    SECOND    SPRING. 

III. 

It  was  the  month  of  June;  the  trees  were 
in  full  foliage ;  there  was  110  longer  any  look 
of  spring  in  the  landscape,  and  the  air  and 
sky  belonged  to  midsummer.  Mrs.  Israel 
Hay  don  had  been  dead  nearly  two  months. 

On  a  Sunday  afternoon  the  father  and  son 
sat  in  two  old  splint-bottomed  chairs  just  in 
side  the  wood-house,  in  the  shade.  The  wide 
doors  were  always  thrown  back  at  that  time 
of  the  year,  and  there  was  a  fine  view  across 
the  country.  William  Hay  don  could  see  his 
own  farm  spread  out  like  a  green  map ;  he 
was  scanning  the  boundaries  of  the  orderly 
fences  and  fields  and  the  stretches  of  wood 
land  and  pasture.  He  looked  away  at  them 
from  time  to  time,  or  else  bent  over  and 
poked  among  the  wood-house  dust  and  fine 
chips  with  his  walking-stick.  "There  's  an 
old  buckle  that  I  lost  one  day  ever  so  many 
years  ago,"  he  exclaimed  suddenly,  and 
reached  down  to  pick  it  up.  William  was 
beginning  to  look  stout  and  middle-aged. 
He  held  out  the  rusty  buckle  to  his  father, 
but  Israel  Haydon  sat  stiffly  upright,  and 
hardly  gave  a  glance  at  the  useless  object. 

"I  thought  Elder  Wall  preached  an  ex- 


A   SECOND    SPRING.  175 

cellent  discourse  this  morning."  William 
made  further  attempt  to  engage  his  father's 
interest  and  attention,  but  without  avail. 

"I  wish  you  'd  tell  me  what 's  the  matter 
with  you,  sir,"  said  the  troubled  son,  turning 
squarely,  and  with  honest  kindness  in  his 
look.  "It  hurts  my  feelings,  father.  If 
I  've  put  you  out,  I  want  to  make  amends. 
Marilla  's  worried  to  death  for  fear  it 's  on 
her  account.  We  both  set  everything  by 
you,  but  you  hold  us  off ;  and  I  feel,  when  I 
try  to  be  company  for  you,  as  if  you  thought 
I  belonged  in  jail,  and  had  n't  no  rights  of 
any  kind.  Can't  you  talk  right  out  with  me, 
sir?  Ain't  you  well?  " 

"There!  don't  run  on,  boy,"  said  the  old 
man  sadly.  "I  do  the  best  I  can;  you've 
got  to  give  me  time.  I  'm  dreadful  hard 
pushed  losin'  of  your  mother.  I  've  lost  my 
home;  you  ain't  got  the  least  idea  what  it 
is,  William." 

His  old  face  quivered,  and  William  rose 
hastily  and  went  a  step  or  two  forward, 
making  believe  that  he  was  looking  after  his 
horse.  "Stand  still,  there!  "  he  shouted  to 
the  placid  creature,  and  then  came  back  and 
reached  out  his  hand  to  his  father. 

Israel  took  hold  of  it,  but  looked  up,  a 


176  A   SECOND   SPUING. 

little  puzzled.     "You  ain't  going  yet ?"  lie 
asked.    "Why,  you  've  only  just  come." 

"  I  want  you  to  ride  over  with  me  to  sup 
per  to-night.  I  want  you  to  see  how  well 
that  piece  o'  late  corn  looks,  after  all  your 
saying  I  might 's  well  lay  it  down  to  turnips. 
Come,  father;  the  horse's  right  here,  and 
't  will  make  a  change  for  you.  Ain't  you 
about  got  through  with  them  pies  aunt 
Martin  left  you  when  she  went  away? 
Come ;  we  're  goin'  to  have  a  hearty  supper, 
and  I  want  ye." 

"I  don't  know  but  I  will,"  said  Israel 
Hay  don  slowly.  "We've  got  on  pretty 
well  —  no,  we  ain't,  neither.  I  ain't  com 
fortable,  and  I  can't  make  nothin'  o'  that 
poor  shoat  of  a  boy.  I  'm  buying  o'  the 
baker  an'  frying  a  pan  o'  pork  the  whole 
time,  trying  to  fill  him  up.  I  never  was 
so  near  out  o'  pork  this  time  o'  year,  not 
since  I  went  to  housekeepin'." 

"I  heard  he'd  been  tellin'  round  the 
neighborhood  that  he  was  about  starved," 
said  William  plainly.  "Our  folks  always 
had  the  name  o'  being  good  providers." 

"How  'd  your  mother  use  to  wash  up  the 
cups  an'  things  to  make  'em  look  decent?" 
asked  Mr.  Haydon  suddenly;  there  was 


A   SECOND    SPRING.  177 

the  humility  of  broken  pride  in  his  tone. 
"I  can't  seem  to  find  nothin'  to  do  with, 
anywhere  about  the  house.  I  s' posed  I 
knew  where  everything  was.  I  expect  I  've 
got  out  all  poor  mother's  best  things,  with 
out  knowin'  the  difference.  Except  there 
ain't  nothin'  nowhere  that  looks  right  to 
me,"  he  added. 

William  stooped  to  pick  something  out  of 
the  chips.  "You'll  have  to  ask  Marilla," 
he  said.  "It  mortifies  me  to  have  you  go  on 
in  such  a  way.  Now,  father,  you  would  n't 
hear  to  anybody  that  was  named  to  you,  but 
if  you  go  on  this  way  much  longer  you  '11 
find  that  any  housekeeper 's  better  than 
none." 

"Why,  I  've  only  been  waiting  to  hear  of 
a  proper  person,"  said  Israel  Haydon,  turn 
ing  an  innocent  and  aggrieved  countenance 
upon  his  son.  "My  house  is  in  a  terrible 
state,  now  I  can  tell  you." 

William  looked  away  and  tried  to  keep 
his  face  steady. 

"What  do  you  find  to  laugh  at?"  asked 
the  poor  father,  in  the  tone  of  a  school 
master. 

"Don't  you  know  I  spoke  of  somebody  to 
you?  I  believe  'twas  the  very  day  after 


178  A   SECOND    SPltlNG. 

the  funeral,"  said  William  persuasively. 
"Her  name  is  Maria  Durrant." 

"I  remember  the  person  well;  an  excel 
lent,  sensible  woman,  no  flummery,  and  did 
remarkable  well  in  case  of  sickness  at  your 
house,"  said  Mr.  Hay  don,  with  enthusiasm, 
stepping  briskly  toward  the  wagon  after  he 
had  shut  and  fastened  the  wood-house  doors 
and  put  the  padlock  key  in  his  pocket. 
"What  of  her?  You  said  there  was  no 
chance  of  getting  her,  didn't  you?  " 

"I  was  afraid  so;  but  she  's  left  her  bro 
ther's  folks  now,  and  come  to  stop  a  little 
while  with  Marilla.  She  's  at  the  house  this 
minute ;  came  last  night.  You  know,  Ma 
rilla  's  very  fond  of  having  her  cousins  come 
to  stop  with  her,"  apologized  the  son,  in  fear 
lest  his  simple  plot  should  be  discovered  and 
resented.  "You  can  see  if  she  's  such  a  per 
son  as  you  want.  I  have  been  thinking  all 
day  that  she  might  do  for  a  time,  anyway." 

"Anybody  '11  do,"  said  Mr.  Haydon  sud 
denly.  "I  tell  ye,  William,  I'm  drove  to 
the  wall.  I  feel  to  covet  a  good  supper;  an' 
I  'm  ashamed  to  own  it,  a  man  o'  my  prop 
erty  !  I  '11  observe  this  Miss  Durrant,  an' 
speak  with  her  after  tea;  perhaps  she'd 
have  the  sense  to  come  right  over  to-mor- 


A   SECOND   SPRING.  179 

row.  You  an'  Marilla  can  tell  her  how 
I  've  been  situated.  I  wa'n't  going  to 
have  no  such  persons  in  my  house  as  were 
recommended,"  he  grumbled  on  cheerfully. 
"I  don't  keep  a  town -farm  for  the  incapa 
ble,  nor  do  I  want  an  old  grenadier  set  over 
me  like  that  old  maid  Smith.  I  ain't  going 
to  be  turned  out  of  my  own  house." 

They  drove  along  the  road  slowly,  and 
presently  the  ever  -  interesting  subject  of 
crops  engaged  their  further  attention.  When 
they  turned  into  William  Hay  don's  side 
yard  a  pleasant-faced,  middle-aged  woman, 
in  a  neat  black  dress  and  a  big  clean  white 
apron,  sat  on  the  piazza  with  Marilla  and  the 
children.  Israel  Hay  don's  heart  felt  lighter 
than  it  had  for  many  a  week.  He  went  and 
shook  hands  with  Maria  Durrant,  with  more 
than  interest  and  approval;  there  was  even 
a  touch  of  something  like  gallantry  in  his 
manner.  William  Haydon  glanced  at  his 
wife  and  gave  an  unconscious  sigh  of  relief. 

The  next  morning  Miss  Durrant  helped 
with  the  early  work,  talking  with  William's 
wife  as  she  went  to  and  fro  busily  in  the 
large  kitchen,  and  listening  to  all  that  could 
be  said  of  the  desperate  state  of  affairs  at 


180  A   SECOND   SPRING. 

the  old  farm.  The  two  women  so  doubled 
their  diligence  by  working  together  that  it 
was  still  early  in  the  day  when  Maria, 
blushing  noticeably,  said  that  she  thought 
there  was  no  use  in  waiting  until  afternoon, 
as  old  Mr.  Haydon  had  directed.  There 
must  be  plenty  to  do;  and  the  sooner  the 
house  was  put  to  rights  and  some  cooking 
got  under  way  the  better.  She  had  her  old 
calico  dress  all  on,  and  she  deemed  it  best 
to  go  over  and  go  right  to  work. 

"There!  I  don't  know  what  to  say, 
Maria,"  said  Marilla  Haydon  doubtfully. 
"Father  Haydon  's  such  a  set  person." 

"So  be  I,"  rejoined  Maria.  "And  who 
knows  how  bad  those  rooms  need  airing! 
I  've  thought  of  twenty  things  that  ought  to 
be  done  right  off,  before  night.  Or  I  could 
work  a  spell  in  the  gar  din  if  he  don't  seem 
to  want  me  in  the  house.  Now,  wa'n't  it 
affectin'  to  hear  him  let  on  that  he  'd  gone 
an'  made  poor  Mis'  Haydon's  flower  gardin 
same  's  he  'd  always  done?  It  showed  real 
feelin',  didn't  it?  I  am  goin'  to  take  holt 
over  there  as  if  't  was  for  her  as  well  as  for 
him.  That  time  I  was  here  so  long,  when 
you  was  so  sick,  I  did  just  admire  Mis'  Hay 
don.  She  was  a  beautiful-looking  woman, 


A    SECOND    SPRING.  181 

and  so  pretty -behaved ;  quiet,  but  observin'. 
I  never  saw  a  man  age  as  William's  father 
has;  it  made  my  heart  ache  when  I  first 
caught  sight  of  him  driving  into  the  yard 
last  night." 

"He  revived  up  conversin'  with  you  an' 
maldn'  such  a  good  hearty  tea,"  suggested 
Marilla,  disappearing  in  the  pantry.  "I 
ain't  never  felt  free  with  father  Hay  don, 
but  I  do  respect  him,"  she  added  presently. 
"Well,  now,  go  right  over,  Maria,  if  you 
feel  moved  to.  I  don't  know  but  what 
you  're  wise.  PVaps  William  an'  I  '11 
walk  over,  after  supper  's  put  away.  I 
guess  you  've  got  a  busy  day  before  you." 

She  stood  at  the  open  door  and  watched 
Maria  Durrant  go  away,  a  few  minutes 
later,  with  a  plump  bundle  under  one  arm. 

"I  should  think  you  were  going  to  seek 
your  fortune,"  she  called  merrily,  as  the 
good  woman  turned  into  the  road ;  but  Ma 
ria  wagged  her  head  with  a  cheerful  nod, 
and  did  not  deign  to  look  back.  "I  ought 
to  have  given  her  some  bread  to  tuck  under 
the  other  arm,  like  the  picture  of  Benjamin 
Franklin.  I  dare  say  they  do  need  bread; 
I  ought  to  have  thought  of  it,"  said  Marilla 
anxiously,  as  she  returned  to  the  pantry. 


182  A   SECOND    SPRING. 

"But  there!  Father  Hay  don 's  got  as  far 
along  in  housekeeping  as  stopping  the  baker ; 
an'  he  was  put  out  because  I  sent  things 
too  soon,  before  aunt  Martin's  provisions 
were  gone.  I  '11  risk  cousin  Maria  to  get 
along." 

The  new  housekeeper  trod  the  little  foot 
path  at  the  road  edge  with  a  firm  step.  She 
was  as  eager  and  delighted  as  if  she  were 
bent  on  a  day's  pleasuring.  A  truly  sym 
pathetic,  unselfish  heart  beat  in  her  breast ; 
she  fairly  longed  to  make  the  lonely,  obsti 
nate  old  man  comfortable.  Presently  she 
found  herself  going  up  the  long  Haydon  lane 
in  the  shade  of  the  apple-trees.  The  great 
walnut-trees  at  the  other  side  of  the  house 
were  huge  and  heavy  with  leaves ;  there  was 
a  general  floweriness  and  pleasantness  over 
all  growing  things ;  but  the  tall  thin  spruce 
that  towered  before  the  front  door  looked 
black  and  solitary,  and  bore  a  likeness  to  old 
Mr.  Haydon  himself.  Such  was  the  force  of 
this  comparison  that  Miss  Durrant  stopped 
and  looked  at  it  with  compassion. 

Then  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  poor  flower 
bed  overgrown  with  weeds,  through  which 
the  bachelor's-buttons  and  London-pride 
were  pushing  their  way  into  bloom.  "I 


THE   SECOND    SPRING.  183 

guess  I  '11  set  a  vine  to  grow  up  that  tree ; 
't  would  get  sun  enough,  an'  look  real  live 
and  pretty,"  she  decided,  surveying  the  sit 
uation;  then  she  moved  on,  with  perhaps 
less  eagerness  in  her  gait,  and  boldly  en 
tered  the  side  door  of  the  house.  She  could 
hear  the  sound  of  an  axe  in  the  shed,  as 
if  some  one  were  chopping  up  kindlings. 
When  she  caught  sight  of  the  empty  kitchen 
she  dropped  her  bundle  into  the  nearest 
chair,  and  held  up  her  hands  in  what  was  no 
affectation  of  an  appearance  of  despair. 

IV. 

One  day  in  May,  about  a  year  from  the 
time  that  Martha  Haydoii  died,  Maria  Dur- 
rant  was  sitting  by  the  western  window  of 
the  kitchen,  mending  Mr.  Hay  don's  second- 
best  black  coat,  when  she  looked  down  the 
lane  and  saw  old  Polly  Norris  approaching 
the  house.  Polly  was  an  improvident  mo 
ther  of  improvident  children,  not  always 
quite  sound  in  either  wits  or  behavior,  but 
she  had  always  been  gently  dealt  with  by 
the  Haydons,  and,  as  it  happened,  was  also 
an  old  acquaintance  of  Maria  Durrani's  own. 
Maria  gave  a  little  groan  at  the  sight  of  her : 
she  did  not  feel  just  then  like  listening  to 


184  A    SECOND    SPRING. 

long  tales  or  responding  to  troublesome  de 
mands.  She  nodded  kindly  to  the  foolish 
old  creature,  who  presently  came  wheezing 
and  lamenting  into  the  clean  sunshiny 
kitchen,  and  dropped  herself  like  an  armful 
of  old  clothes  into  the  nearest  chair. 

Maria  rose  and  put  by  her  work ;  she  was 
half  glad,  after  all,  to  have  company;  and 
Polly  Norris  was  not  without  certain  powers 
of  good-fellowship  and  entertaining  speech. 

"I  expect  this  may^  be  the  last  time  I 
can  get  so  fur,"  she  announced.  "'Tis  just 
'bout  a  year  sence  we  was  all  to  Mis'  Hay- 
clon's  funeral.  I  didn't  know  but  that  was 
the  last  time.  Well,  I  do'  know  but  it 's  so 
I  can  accept  that  piece  o'  pie.  I  've  come 
fur,  an'  my  strength  's  but  small.  How  's 
William's  folks?" 

"They're  smart,"  answered  Maria,  seat 
ing  herself  to  her  work  again,  after  the  ex 
pedition  to  the  pantry. 

"I  tell  ye  this  is  beautiful  pie,"  said  the 
guest,  looking  up,  after  a  brief  and  busy 
silence;  "a  real  comfortable  help  o'  pie, 
after  such  a  walk,  feeble  as  I  be.  I  've 
failed  a  sight  sence  you  see  me  before,  now 
ain't  I  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  's  I  see   any  change  to 


A   SECOND    SPRING.  185 

speak  of,"  said  Maria,  bending  over  the 
coat. 

"Lord  bless  you,  an'  Heaven  too!  I 
ain't  eat  no  such  pie  as  this  sence  I  was  a 
girl.  Your  rule,  was  it,  or  poor  Mis'  Hay- 
doii's?" 

"  I  've  always  made  my  pies  that  same 
way,"  said  Maria  soberly.  "I'm  pleased 
you  should  enjoy  it." 

"  I  expect  my  walk  give  me  an  extry  ap 
petite.  I  can  walk  like  a  bird,  now,  I  tell 
ye;  last  summer  I  went  eleven  miles,  an' 
ag'in  nine  miles.  You  just  ought  to  see  me 
on  the  road,  an'  here  I  be,  goin'  on  seventy- 
seven  year  old.  There  ain't  so  many  places 
to  go  to  as  there  used  to  be.  I  've  known  a 
sight  o'  nice  kind  folks  that 's  all  gone. 
It 's  re'lly  sad  how  folks  is  goin'.  There  's 
all  Mis'  Nash's  folks  passed  away;  the  old 
doctor,  an'  the  little  grandgirl,  an'  Mis' 
Nash  that  was  like  a  mother  to  me,  an'  al 
ways  had  somethin'  to  give  me;  an'  down 
to  Glover's  Corner  they  're  all  gone  " 

"Yes,  anybody  feels  such  changes,"  re 
plied  Maria  compassionately.  "You  've 
seen  trouble,  ain't  you?" 

"I  've  seen  all  kinds  of  trouble,"  said  the 
withered  little  creature,  mournfully. 


186  A    SECOND    SPUING. 

"How  is  your  daughter  to  South  Atfield 
gettin'  along?"  asked  the  hostess  kindly, 
after  a  pause,  while  Polly  worked  away  at 
the  pie. 

"Lord  bless  you!  this  pie  is  so  heart- 
eniii',  somehow  or  'nother,  after  such  a 
walk.  Susan  Louisa  is  doiii'  pretty  well; 
she 's  a  sight  improved  from  what  she  was. 
Folks  is  very  considerate  to  Susan  Louisa. 
She  goes  to  the  Orthodox  church,  an'  sence 
she  was  sick  there  's  been  a  committee  to 
see  to  her.  They  met,  fifteen  in  number. 
One  on  'em  give  her  two  quarts  o'  milk  a 
day.  Mr.  Dean,  Susan  Louisa's  husband, 
died  the  eighth  day  o'  last  March." 

"Yes,  I  heard  he  was  gone,  rather  sud 
den,"  said  Maria,  showing  more  interest. 

"Yes,  but  he  was  'twixt  eighty  an'  ninety 
year  old.  Susan  Louisa  was  but  fifty-one 
in  February  last." 

"He'd  have  done  better  for  you,  would 
n't  he,  Mis'  Norris?"  suggested  Maria,  by 
way  of  pleasantry,  but  there  was  a  long  and 
doubtful  pause. 

"I  had  rather  be  excused,"  said  Polly  at 
last,  with  great  emphasis.  "Miss  Maria 
Durrant,  ain't  you  got  a  calico  dress  you 
could  spare,  or  an  apron,  or  a  pair  o'  rub- 


A    SECOND    SPRING.  187 

bers,  anyways?  I  be  extra  needy,  now,  I 
tell  you !  There ;  I  ain't  inquired  for  Wil 
liam's  folks;  how  be  they?" 

"All  smart,"  said  Maria,  for  the  second 
time;  but  she  happened  to  lookup  just  in 
time  to  catch  a  strange  gleam  in  her  visi 
tor's  eyes. 

"Mis'  William  don't  come  here,  I  ex 
pect?"  she  asked  mysteriously. 

"She  never  was  no  great  of  a  visitor. 
Yes,  she  comes  sometimes,"  answered  Maria 
Durrant. 

"I  understood  William  had  forbid  her 
till  you  'd  got  away,  if  she  was  your  own 
cousin." 

"We  're  havin'  no  trouble  together. 
What  do  you  mean?  "  Maria  demanded. 

"Well,  my  hearing  ain't  good."  Polly 
tried  to  get  herself  into  safe  shelter  of  gen 
eralities.  "  Old  folks  kind  o'  dreams  things ; 
you  must  excuse  me,  Maria.  But  I  certain 
have  heard  a  sight  o'  talk  about  your  stop- 
pin'  here  so  long  with  Mr.  Haydon,  and 
that  William  thought  you  was  overdoin', 
an'  would  have  spoke,  only  you  was  his 
wife's  cousin.  There 's  plenty  stands  up 
for  you;  I  should  always  be  one  of  'em  my 
self;  you  needn't  think  but  I 'm  a  friend, 


188  A   SECOND    SPRING. 

Maria.  I  heard  somebody  a-remarking  that 
you  was  goin'  to  stay  till  you  got  him ;  an' 
others  said  Mr.  Israel  Haydon  was  one  to 
know  his  own  mind,  and  he  never  would 
want  to  put  nobody  in  his  wife's  place,  they 
set  so  by  one  another.  An'  I  spoke  a  good 
word  for  ye.  I  says,  '  Now  look  here! 
't  ain't  's  if  Mari'  Durrant  was  a  girl  o' 
twenty-five;  she  's  a  smart  capable  creatur',' 
says  I,  '  an'  ' 

"  I  guess  I  've  got  an  old  dress  I  can  let 
you  have." 

Maria  Durrant,  with  crimson  cheeks  and 
a  beating  heart,  rose  suddenly  and  escaped 
to  the  back  stairway.  She  left  old  Polly 
sitting  in  the  kitchen  so  long  that  she  fell 
into  a  comfortable  drowse,  from  which  she 
was  recalled  by  Maria's  reappearance  with 
a  bundle  of  discarded  garments,  but  there 
was  something  stern  and  inhospitable  in 
these  last  moments  of  the  visit,  and  Polly 
soon  shuffled  off  down  the  lane,  mumbling 
and  muttering  and  hugging  the  bundle  with 
great  delight.  She  always  enjoyed  her  visits 
to  the  Haydon  farm.  But  she  had  left  Miss 
Durrant  crying  by  the  western  window;  the 
bitter  tears  were  falling  on  Israel  Haydon 's 
old  black  coat.  It  seemed  very  hard  that 


A   SECOND    SPRING.  189 

a  woman  who  had  spent  all  her  life  working 
for  others  should  be  treated  as  the  enemy  of 
kindred  and  acquaintance;  this  was  almost 
the  first  time  in  all  her  history  that  she  had 
managed  to  gather  and  hold  a  little  peace 
and  happiness.  There  was  nothing  to  do 
now  but  to  go  back  to  her  brother's  noisy 
shiftless  house;  to  work  against  wind  and 
tide  of  laziness  and  improvidence.  She  must 
slave  for  the  three  boarders,  so  that  her 
brother's  wife  could  go  to  New  York  State 
to  waste  her  time  with  a  sister  just  as  worth 
less,  though  not  so  penniless,  as  herself. 
And  there  was  young  Johnny,  her  nephew, 
working  with  Mr.  Hay  don  on  the  farm,  and 
doing  so  well,  he  must  go  back  too,  and  be 
put  into  the  factory.  Maria  looked  out  of 
the  window ;  through  the  tears  that  stood  in 
her  eyes  the  smooth  green  fields  were  mag 
nified  and  transfigured. 

The  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Haydon  en 
tered  with  deliberate  step  and  a  pleasant 
reassuring  look.  He  almost  never  smiled, 
but  he  happened  to  be  smiling  then.  "I 
observed  you  had  company  just  now;  I  saw 
old  Polly  Norris  going  down  the  lane  when 
I  was  coming  up  from  the  field,"  he  said, 
and  then  stopped  suddenly,  and  took  a  step 


190  A    SECOND    SPRfNG. 

nearer  to  Maria;  he  had  never  seen  his 
cheerful  housemate  in  tears.  He  did  not 
ask  the  reason ;  they  both  felt  embarrassed, 
and  yet  each  was  glad  of  the  other's  pres 
ence.  Mr.  Haydon  did  not  speak,  but  Ma 
ria  brushed  her  tears  away,  and  tried  to  go 
on  sewing.  She  was  mending  the  lining  of 
the  second-best  black  coat  with  most  touch 
ing  care. 

"I  expect  I  shall  have  to  take  that  co't 
for  every  day  now,  an'  get  me  a  new  one 
for  best,"  he  announced  at  last,  because 
somebody  had  to  say  something.  "I've 
about  finished  with  this.  Spring  work  is 
hard  on  an  old  co't." 

"Your  best  one  is  gettin'  a  little  mite 
threadbare  in  the  back,"  said  Maria,  but  it 
was  hard  for  her  to  control  her  voice.  "I  '11 
put  all  your  clothes  in  as  good  repair  as  I 
can  before  I  go,  sir.  I  've  come  to  the  con 
clusion  that  I  ought  to  go  back  to  my  bro 
ther's  folks,  his  wife  wants  to  go  off  on  a 
visit  "- 

"Don't  you,  Maria,"  exclaimed  the  dis 
tressed  old  man.  "Don't  talk  that  way; 
it 's  onreasonable.  William  has  informed 
me  about  your  brother's  folks:  what  else 
may  affect  you  I  don't  know,  but  I  've  made 


A   SECOND    SPRING.  191 

up  my  mind.  I  don't  know  why  'twas, 
but  I  was  just  comin'  to  speak  about  it.  I 
may  say  't  was  for  your  interest  as  well  as 
mine,  an'  with  William's  approval.  I  never 
thought  to  change  my  situation  till  lately. 
Such  a  loss  as  I  've  met  ain't  to  be  for 
gotten,  an'  it  ain't  forgotten.  I  'm  gettin' 
along  in  years,  an'  I  never  was  a  great 
talker.  I  expect  you  know  what  I  want  to 
say,  Miss  Durrant.  I  '11  provide  well  for 
you,  an'  make  such  a  settlement  as  you  an' 
William  approve.  He 's  well  off,  an'  he 
spoke  to  me  about  us ;  that  we  was  comfort 
able  together,  an'  he  never  wanted  to  see 
me  left  alone,  as  I  was  last  year.  How  do 
you  feel  yourself?  You  feel  that  'twould 
be  good  judgment,  now  don't  ye?  " 

Maria  never  had  heard  Mr.  Israel  Hay- 
don  say  so  much  at  any  one  time.  There 
he  stood,  a  man  of  sixty-eight,  without  pre 
tense  of  having  fallen  in  love,  but  kind  and 
just,  and  almost  ministerial  in  his  respecta 
bility.  She  had  always  followed  a  faint  but 
steady  star  of  romance,  which  shone  still 
for  her  in  the  lowering  sky  of  her  life ;  it 
seemed  to  shine  before  her  eyes  now;  it 
dazzled  her  through  fresh  tears.  Yet,  after 
all,  she  felt  that  this  was  really  her  home, 


192  A   SECOND    SPRING. 

and  with  a  sudden  great  beat  of  her  heart, 
she  knew  that  she  should  say  "  Yes  "  to  Mr. 
Hay  don.  The  sharp  sting  in  the  thought 
of  going  away  had  been  that  she  must  leave 
him  to  the  ignorant  devotion  or  neglect  of 
somebody  else  —  some  other  woman  was  go 
ing  to  have  the  dear  delight  of  making  him 
comfortable. 

So  she  looked  up  full  in  his  face,  unmind 
ful  of  the  bleakness  of  his  love-making,  and 
was  touched  to  see  that  he  bore  the  aspect 
of  a  truly  anxious  and  even  affectionate 
man.  Without  further  words  they  both 
knew  that  the  great  question  was  settled. 
The  star  of  romance  presently  turned  itself 
into  the  bright  kitchen  lamp  that  stood  be 
tween  them  as  Maria  sewed  her  long  winter 
seam  and  looked  up  contentedly  to  see  Mr. 
Haydon  sitting  opposite  with  his  weekly 
newspaper. 

v. 

Mr.  Haydon  owned  one  of  the  last  old- 
fashioned  two-wheeled  chaises,  a  select  few 
of  which  still  survived  in  the  retired  region 
of  Atfield.  It  would  not  have  suited  him 
to  go  to  church  in  a  wagon  like  his  neigh 
bors,  any  more  than  he  could  have  bought  a 


1  A   SECOND   SPRING.  193 

rough  working-suit  of  new  clothes  for  every 
day.  The  chaise-top  had  always  framed  the 
faces  of  Mr.  Haydon  and  Martha,  his  first 
wife,  in  a  fitting  manner  —  not  unlike  a 
Friend's  plain  bonnet  on  a  larger  scale;  it 
had  belonged  to  their  placid  appearance  of 
old-time  respectability.  Now  that  Maria, 
the  second  wife,  had  taken  the  vacant  seat 
by  the  driver's  side,  her  fresher  color  and 
eager  enjoyment  of  the  comfort  and  dignity 
of  the  situation  were  remarked  with  plea 
sure.  She  had  not  been  forward  about 
keeping  Mr.  Haydon  company  before  their 
marriage;  for  some  reason  she  was  not  a 
constant  church-goer,  and  usually  had  some 
excuse  for  staying  at  home,  both  on  Sun 
days  and  when  there  was  any  expedition  on 
business  to  one  of  the  neighboring  towns. 
But  after  the  wedding  these  invitations  were 
accepted  as  a  matter  of  course. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  they  were  bobbing 
home  from  meeting  in  their  usual  sedate  and 
placid  fashion.  There  had  been  a  very  good 
sermon,  and  two  or  three  strangers  in  the 
congregation,  old  acquaintances  who  had 
left  Atfield  for  the  West,  stopped  to  speak 
with  their  friends  after  the  service  was  over. 
It  was  a  lovely  day,  and  there  was  the  peace- 


194  A   SECOND   SPRING. 

fulness  of  Sunday  over  the  landscape,  the 
wide  untenanted  fields,  the  woods  near  and 
far,  and  the  distant  hills.  The  old  pacing 
horse  jogged  steadily,  along. 

"I  was  thinking  how  your  wife  would 
have  enjoyed  seeing  the  folks;  wouldn't 
she?"  said  Maria,  with  gentle  sympathy. 

"The  thought  was  just  dwelling  in  my 
mind,"  said  the  old  man,  turning  toward 
her,  a  little  surprised. 

"I  was  sorry  I  was  standin'  right  there; 
they  did  n't  feel  so  free  to  speak,  you  know," 
said  Maria,  who  had  accepted  her  place  as 
substitute  with  a  touching  self-forgetfulness 
and  devotion,  following  as  best  she  could 
the  humblest  by-paths  of  the  first  Mrs. 
Hay  don's  career. 

"Marthyand  Mis'  Chellis  that  you  saw 
to-day  was  always  the  best  of  friends ;  they 
was  girls  together,"  said  Mr.  Haydon,  sway 
ing  his  whip-lash.  "  They  was  second  cou 
sins  on  the  father's  side." 

"Don't  you  expect  Mis'  Chellis  'd  like  to 
come  an'  take  tea  with  you  some  afternoon? 
I  always  feel  as  if  't  would  be  sad  for  you, 
such  an  occasion,  but  I  '11  have  everything 
real  nice.  Folks  seem  to  be  paying  her  a 
good  deal  of  attention,"  suggested  Maria. 


A   SECOND    SPRING.  195 

"  And  when  anybody  has  been  away  a  good 
while,  they  like  to  go  all  round  and  see  all 
the  places  that 's  familiar,  if  they  do  feel 
the  changes." 

"Yes,  I  guess  we'd  better  invite  her  to 
spend  the  afternoon,"  said  the  old  man,  and 
they  jogged  on  together  in  silence. 

"Have  you  got  everything  you  want  to 
do  with?  "  asked  Mr.  Hay  don  kindly. 

"Certain,"  answered  Maria,  with  satis 
faction.  "I  never  was  acquainted  with  such 
a  good  provider  as  you  be  in  all  the  houses 
I  've  ever  stopped  in;  I  can  say  that. 
You  've  remembered  a  number  o'  things 
this  past  week  that  I  should  have  forgot 
myself.  I  've  seen  what  other  women  folks 
has  to  go  through  with,  being  obliged  to 
screw  every  way  an'  make  up  things  out  o' 
nothing,  afraid  to  say  the  flour  's  gone  or 
the  sugar  's  out.  Them  very  husbands  is 
the  ones  that  '11  find  most  fault  if  their 
tables  ain't  spread  with  what  they  want.  I 
know  now  what  made  your  wife  always  look 
so  pleased  an'  contented." 

"She  was  very  saving  an'  judicious  by 
iiatur',"  said  Mr.  Hay  don,  as  if  he  did  not 
wish  to  take  so  much  praise  entirely  to  him 
self.  "  I  call  you  a  very  saving  woman  too, 


196  A   SECOND   SPRING. 

Maria,"  he  added,  looking  away  over  the 
fields,  as  if  he  had  made  some  remark  about 
the  grass. 

The  bright  color  rushed  to  Maria's  face, 
but  she  could  not  say  anything.  There  was 
something  very  pleasant  in  the  air;  the 
fields  appeared  new  to  her  and  most  beauti 
ful;  it  was  a  moment  of  great  happiness. 

"I  tell  you  I  felt  it  dreadfully  when  I 
was  alone  all  that  time.  I  enjoy  having 
somebody  to  speak  with  now  about  poor 
Martha,"  said  the  old  man,  with  great  feel 
ing. 

"It  was  dreadful  lonely  for  you,  wa'n't 
it?  "  said  Maria,  in  her  sensible,  pleasant, 
compassionate  tone. 

"People  meant  well  enough  with  their 
advice,  but  I  was  set  so  cross-wise  that  it 
all  seemed  like  interference.  I  'd  got  to 
wait  till  the  right  thing  came  round  —  an' 
it  come  at  last,"  announced  Mr.  Haydon 
handsomely.  "I  feel  to  be  very  grateful. 
Yes,  I  want  to  have  Mis'  Chellis  come  an' 
take  tea,  just  as  she  used  to.  We  '11  look 
over  what 's  left  o'  poor  Mar  thy 's  little 
things,  an'  select  something  to  give  her  for 
a  remembrance.  'T  ain't  very  likely  she  '11 
come  'way  East  again  at  her  time  o'  life. 


A    SECOND   SPRING.  197 

She's  liavin'  a  grand  time;  it  acts  to  me 
just  like  a  last  visit." 

"I  '11  make  some  nice  pound-cake  to-mor 
row,  and  we '11  ask  her  next  day,"  said 
Maria  cheerfully,  as  they  turned  into  the 
lane. 

Maria  Hay  don's  life  had  been  spent  in 
trying  to  make  other  people  comfortable, 
and  so  she  succeeded,  oftener  than  she  knew, 
in  making  them  happy.  Every  day  she 
seemed  to  forget  herself,  and  to  think  of 
others  more ;  and  so,  though  old  Mrs.  Chel- 
lis  missed  her  friend  when  she  came  to  tea 
the  next  day  but  one,  she  soon  forgot  the 
sadness  of  the  first  few  minutes,  and  began 
to  enjoy  the  kind  welcome  of  Mr.  Hay  don 
and  his  present  companion. 

A  little  later  Mr.  Haydon  was  coming 
back  from  one  of  his  fields  to  look  after 
some  men  whom  he  and  his  son  had  set  to 
work  at  ditching.  Most  of  the  talk  that 
afternoon  had  naturally  been  connected  with 
his  first  wife,  but  now  everything  along  his 
path  reminded  him  of  Maria.  Her  prosper 
ous  flock  of  young  turkeys  were  heading 
northward  at  a  little  distance  out  across  the 
high  grass  land ;  and  below,  along  the  brook, 


198  A   SECOND    SPRING. 

went  the  geese  and  goslings  in  a  sedate  pro 
cession.  The  young  pear-trees  which  she 
had  urged  him  to  set  out  looked  thrifty  and 
strong  as  he  passed,  and  there  were  some 
lengths  of  linen  bleaching  on  a  knoll,  that 
she  had  found  yellowing  in  one  of  the  garret 
chests.  She  took  care  of  everything,  and, 
best  of  all,  she  took  great  care  of  him.  He 
had  left  the  good  creature  devoting  herself 
to  their  guest  as  if  she  were  an  old  friend  in 
stead  of  a  stranger  —  just  for  his  sake  and 
his  wife's  sake.  Maria  always  said  "your 
wife  "  when  she  spoke  of  her  predecessor. 

"Marthy  always  said  that  Maria  Durrant 
was  as  kind  and  capable  a  woman  as  she 
ever  set  eyes  on,  an'  poor  Marthy  was  one 
that  knew,"  said  Mr.  Hay  don  to  himself  as 
he  went  along,  and  his  heart  grew  very  ten 
der.  He  was  not  exactly  satisfied  with  him 
self,  but  he  could  not  have  told  why.  As 
he  came  near,  the  house  looked  cheerful  and 
pleasant ;  the  front  door  was  wide  open,  and 
the  best-room  blinds.  The  little  garden  was 
in  full  bloom,  and  there  was  a  sound  of 
friendly  voices.  Conversation  was  flowing 
on  with  a  deep  and  steady  current.  Some 
how  the  old  man  felt  young  again  in  the 
midst  of  his  sober  satisfaction  and  renewed 


A    SECOND    SPRING.  199 

prosperity.  He  lingered  near  the  door,  and 
looked  back  over  his  fields  as  if  he  were 
facing  life  with  a  sense  of  great  security ;  but 
presently  his  ears  caught  at  something  that 
the  two  women  were  saying  in  the  house. 

Maria  was  speaking  to  Mrs.  Chellis,  who 
was  a  little  deaf. 

"Yes 'in,  he  does  look  well,"  she  said. 
"I  think  his  health  's  a  good  sight  better 
than  it  was  a  year  ago.  I  don't  know  's  you 
ever  saw  anybody  so  pitiful  as  he  was  for 
a  good  while  after  he  lost  his  wife.  He 
took  it  harder  than  some  o'  those  do  that 
make  more  talk.  Yes,  she  certain  was  a 
lovely  woman,  and  one  that  knew  how  to 
take  the  lead  for  him  just  where  a  man 
don't  want  to  be  bothered  —  about  house 
matters  and  little  things.  He  's  a  dear, 
good,  kind  man,  Mr.  Haydon  is.  I  feel 
very  grateful  for  all  his  kindness.  I  've 
got  a  lovely  home,  Mis'  Chellis,"  said  Ma 
ria  impulsively;  "an'  I  try  to  do  every 
thing  I  can,  the  way  he  an'  Mis'  Haydon 
always  had  it." 

"I  guess  you  do,"  agreed  the  guest.  "I 
never  see  him  look  better  since  he  was  a 
young  man.  I  hope  he  knows  how  well  off 
he  is!" 


200  A   SECOND    SPRING. 

They  both  laughed  a  little,  and  Mr.  Hay- 
don  could  not  help  smiling  in  sympathy. 

"There,  I  do  enjoy  spending  with  him," 
said  the  younger  woman  wistfully;  "but  I 
can't  help  wishin'  sometimes  that  I  could 
have  been  the  one  to  help  him  save.  I  envy 
Mis'  Haydon  all  that  part  of  it,  and  I  can't 
help  it." 

"Why,  you  must  set  a  sight  by  him!" 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Chellis,  with  mild  surprise. 
"I  didn't  know  but  what  marryin'  for  love 
had  all  gone  out  of  fashion  in  Atfield." 

"You  can  tell  'em  it  ain't,"  said  Maria. 
At  that  moment  Israel  Haydon  turned  and 
walked  away  slowly  up  the  yard.  His  thin 
black  figure  straightened  itself  gallantly, 
and  he  wore  the  look  of  a  younger  man. 

Later  that  evening,  when  the  guests  were 
gone,  after  a  most  cheerful  and  hospitable 
occasion,  and  the  company  tea  things  were 
all  put  away,  Maria  was  sitting  in  the 
kitchen  for  a  few  minutes  to  rest,  and  Mr. 
Haydon  had  taken  his  own  old  chair  near 
the  stove,  and  sat  there  tapping  his  finger- 
ends  together.  They  had  congratulated  each 
other  handsomely,  because  everything  had 
gone  off  so  well;  but  suddenly  they  both 
felt  as  if  there  were  a  third  person  present ; 


A   SECOND    SPRING.  201 

their  feeling  toward  one  another  seemed  to 
change.  Something  seemed  to  prompt  them 
to  new  confidence  and  affection,  to  speak 
the  affectionate  thoughts  that  were  in  their 
hearts;  it  was  no  rebuking,  injured  pres 
ence,  for  a  sense  of  great  contentment  filled 
their  minds.  Israel  Hay  don  tapped  his  fin 
gers  less  regularly  than  usual,  and  Maria 
found  herself  unable  to  meet  his  eyes. 

The  silence  between  them  grew  more  and 
more  embarrassing,  and  at  last  Mr.  Haydon 
remembered  that  he  had  not  locked  the 
barn,  and  rose  at  once,  crossing  the  kitchen 
with  quicker  steps  than  usual.  Maria  looked 
up  at  him  as  he  passed. 

"Yes,  everything  went  off  beautifully," 
she  repeated.  "Mis'  Chellis  is  real  good 
company.  I  enjoyed  hearing  her  talk  about 
old  times.  She  set  everything  by  Mis'  Hay 
don,  didn't  she?  You  had  a  good  wife, 
Mr.  Haydon,  certain,"  said  Maria,  wist 
fully,  as  he  hesitated  a  moment  at  the  door. 

Israel  Haydon  did  not  answer  a  word, 
but  went  his  way  and  shut  the  door  behind 
him.  It  was  a  cool  evening  after  the  plea 
sant  day;  the  air  felt  a  little  chilly.  He  did 
not  go  beyond  the  doorsteps,  for  something 
seemed  to  draw  him  back,  so  he  lifted  the 


202  A    SECOND    SPRING. 

clinking  latch  and  stepped  bravely  into  the 
kitchen  again,  and  stood  there  a  moment  in 
the  bright  light. 

Maria  Haydon  turned  toward  him  as  she 
stood  at  the  cupboard  with  a  little  lamp  in 
her  hand.  "Why,  Mr.  Haydon!  what's 
the  matter?"  She  looked  startled  at  first, 
but  her  face  began  to  shine.  "Now  don't 
you  go  and  be  foolish,  Isr'el!  "  she  said. 

"Maria,"  said  he,  "I  want  to  say  to  you 
that  I  feel  to  be  very  thankful.  I  've  got  a 
good  wife  now." 


LITTLE   FRENCH  MARY. 

THE  town  of  Dulham  was  not  used  to 
seeing  foreigners  of  any  sort,  or  to  hearing 
their  voices  in  its  streets,  so  that  it  was  in 
some  sense  a  matter  of  public  interest  when 
a  Canadian  family  was  reported  to  have 
come  to  the  white  house  by  the  bridge. 
This  house,  small  and  low-storied,  with  a 
bushy  little  garden  in  front,  had  been  stand 
ing  empty  for  several  months.  Usually 
when  a  house  was  left  tenantless  in  Dulham 
it  remained  so  and  fell  into  decay,  and, 
after  some  years,  the  cinnamon  rose  bushes 
straggled  into  the  cellar,  and  the  dutiful 
grass  grew  over  the  mound  that  covered  the 
chimney  bricks.  Dulham  was  a  quiet  place, 
where  the  population  dwindled  steadily, 
though  such  citizens  as  remained  had  reason 
to  think  it  as  pleasant  as  any  country  town 
in  the  world. 

Some  of  the  old  men  who  met  every  day 
to  talk  over  the  town  affairs  were  much  in 
terested  in  the  newcomers.  They  approved 


204  LITTLE   FRENCH   MARY. 

the  course  of  the  strong-looking  young  Ca 
nadian  laborer  who  had  been  quick  to  seize 
upon  his  opportunity;  one  or  two  of  them 
had  already  engaged  him  to  make  their  gar 
dens,  and  to  do  odd  jobs,  and  were  pleased 
with  his  quickness  and  willingness.  He  had 
come  afoot  one  day  from  a  neighboring  town, 
where  he  and  his  wife  had  been  made  ill  by 
bad  drainage  and  factory  work,  and  saw  the 
little  house,  and  asked  the  postmaster  if 
there  were  any  work  to  be  had  out  of  doors 
that  spring  in  Dulham.  Being  assured  of 
his  prospects,  he  reappeared  with  his  pale, 
bright-eyed  wife  and  little  daughter  the  very 
next  day  but  one.  This  startling  prompt 
ness  had  given  time  for  but  few  persons  to 
hear  the  news  of  a  new  neighbor,  and  as 
one  after  another  came  over  the  bridge  and 
along  the  road  there  were  many  questions 
asked.  The  house  seemed  to  have  new  life 
looking  out  of  its  small-paned  windows; 
there  were  clean  white  curtains,  and  china 
dogs  on  the  window-sills,  and  a  blue  smoke 
in  the  chimney  —  the  spring  sun  was  shin 
ing  in  at  the  wide-open  door. 

There  was  a  chilly  east  wind  on  an  April 
day,  and  the  elderly  men  were  gathered  in 
side  the  post-office,  which  was  also  the  chief 


LITTLE   FRENCH  MARY.  205 

grocery  and  dry-goods  store.  Each  was  in 
his  favorite  armchair,  and  there  was  the  ex 
cuse  of  a  morning  fire  in  the  box  sto\^  to 
make  them  form  again  into  the  close  group 
that  was  usually  broken  up  at  the  approach 
of  summer  weather.  Old  Captain  Weathers 
was  talking  about  Alexis,  the  newcomer 
(they  did  not  try  to  pronounce  his  last 
name),  and  was  saying  for  the  third  or 
fourth  time  that  the  more  work  you  set  for 
the  Frenchman  the  better  pleased  he  seemed 
to  be.  ''Helped  'em  to  lay  a  carpet  yester 
day  at  our  house,  neat  as  wax,"  said  the 
Captain,  with  approval.  "Made  the  gar 
den  in  the  front  yard  so  it  has  n't  looked 
so  well  for  years.  We  're  all  goin'  to  find 
him  very  handy;  he  '11  have  plenty  to  do 
among  us  all  summer.  Seems  to  know  what 
you  want  the  minute  you  p'int,  for  he  can't 
make  out  very  well  with  his  English.  I 
used  to  be  able  to  talk  considerable  French 
in  my  early  days  when  I  sailed  from  south 
ern  ports  to  Havre  and  Bordeaux,  but  I 
don't  seem  to  recall  it  now  very  well.  He  'd 
have  made  a  smart  sailor,  Alexis  would; 
quick  an'  willing." 

"They  say  Canada  French  ain't  spoken 
the  same,  anyway"   -began  the  Captain's 


206  LITTLE   FRENCH   MARY. 

devoted  friend,  Mr.  Ezra  Spooner,  by  way 
of  assurance,  when  the  store  door  opened 
anj.  a  bright  little  figure  stood  looking  in. 
All  the  gray -headed  men  turned  that  way, 
and  every  one  of  them  smiled. 

"Come  right  in,  dear,"  said  the  kind- 
hearted  old  Captain. 

They  saw  a  charming  little  creature  about 
six  years  old,  who  smiled  back  again  from 
under  her  neat  bit  of  a  hat;  she  wore  a 
pink  frock  that  made  her  look  still  more  like 
a  flower,  and  she  said  "  13  on  jour"  prettily 
to  the  gentlemen  as  she  passed.  Henry 
Staples,  the  storekeeper  and  postmaster, 
rose  behind  the  counter  to  serve  this  cus 
tomer  as  if  she  had  been  a  queen,  and  took 
from  her  hand  the  letter  she  brought,  with 
the  amount  of  its  postage  folded  up  in  a 
warm  bit  of  newspaper. 

The  Captain  and  his  friends  looked  on 
with  admiration. 

"  Give  her  a  piece  of  candy  —  no,  give  it 
to  me  an'  I  '11  give  it  to  her,"  said  the  Cap 
tain  eagerly,  reaching  for  his  cane  and  leav 
ing  his  chair  with  more  than  usual  agility; 
and  everybody  looked  on  with  intent  while  he 
took  a  striped  stick  of  peppermint  from  the 
storekeeper  and  offered  it  gallantly.  There 


LITTLE    FRENCH   MARY.  207 

was  something  in  the  way  this  favor  was  ac 
cepted  that  savored  of  the  French  court  and 
made  every  man  in  the  store  a  lover. 

The  child  made  a  quaint  bow  before  she 
reached  out  her  hand  with  childish  eagerness 
for  the  unexpected  delight ;  then  she  stepped 
forward  and  kissed  the  Captain. 

There  was  a  murmur  of  delight  at  this 
charming  courtesy;  there  was  not  a  man 
who  would  not  have  liked  to  find  some  ex 
cuse  for  walking  away  with  her,  and  there 
was  a  general  sigh  as  she  shut  the  door  be 
hind  her  and  looked  back  through  the  glass 
with  a  parting  smile. 

"That 's  little  French  Mary,  Alexis's  lit 
tle  girl,"  said  the  storekeeper,  eager  to  pro 
claim  his  advantage  of  previous  acquain 
tance.  "She  came  here  yesterday  and  did 
an  errand  for  her  mother  as  nice  as  a  grown 
person  could." 

"I  never  saw  a  little  creatur'  with  pret 
tier  ways,"  said  the  Captain,  blushing  and 
tapping  his  cane  011  the  floor. 

This  first  appearance  of  the  little  for 
eigner  on  an  April  day  was  like  the  coming 
of  a  young  queen  to  her  kingdom.  She 
reigned  all  summer  over  every  heart  in  Dul- 
ham  —  there  was  not  a  face  but  wore  its 


208  LITTLE   FRENCH   MARY. 

smiles  when  French  Mary  came  down  the 
street,  not  a  mother  who  did  not  say  to  her 
children  that  she  wished  they  had  such 
pretty  manners  and  kept  their  frocks  as 
neat.  The  child  danced  and  sang  like  a 
fairy,  and  condescended  to  all  childish 
games,  and  yet,  best  of  all  for  her  friends, 
she  seemed  to  see  no  difference  between  young 
and  old.  She  sometimes  followed  Captain 
Weathers  home,  and  discreetly  dined  or 
took  tea  with  him  and  his  housekeeper,  an 
honored  guest;  on  rainy  days  she  might  be 
found  in  the  shoemaker's  shop  or  the  black 
smith's,  as  still  as  a  mouse,  and  with  eyes 
as  bright  and  quick,  watching  them  at  their 
work  ;  smiling  much  but  speaking  little, 
and  teaching  as  much  French  as  she  learned 
English.  To  this  day,  in  Dulham,  people 
laugh  and  repeat  her  strange  foreign  words 
and  phrases.  Alexis,  the  father,  was  steady 
at  his  work  of  gardening  and  hay  ing;  Marie, 
the  elder,  his  wife,  washed  and  ironed  and 
sewed  and  swept,  and  was  a  helper  in  many 
households ;  now  and  then  on  Sunday  they 
set  off  early  in  the  morning  and  walked  to 
the  manufacturing  town  whence  they  had 
come,  to  go  to  mass ;  at  the  end  of  the  sum 
mer,  when  they  felt  prosperous,  they  some- 


LITTLE   FRENCH  MARY.  209 

times  hired  a  horse  and  wagon,  and  drove 
there  with  the  child  between  them.  Dulham 
village  was  the  brighter  and  better  for  their 
presence,  and  the  few  old-fashioned  houses 
that  knew  them  treasured  them,  and  French 
Mary  reigned  over  her  kingdom  with  no  re 
volt  or  disaffection  to  the  summer's  end.  She 
seemed  to  fulfill  all  the  duties  of  her  child 
ish  life  by  some  exquisite  instinct  and  infal 
lible  sense  of  fitness  and  propriety. 

One  September  morning,  after  the  first 
frost,  the  Captain  arid  his  friends  were  sit 
ting  in  the  store  with  the  door  shut.  The 
Captain  was  the  last  comer. 

"I've  got  bad  news,"  he  said,  and  they 
all  turned  toward  him,  apprehensive  and 
forewarned. 

"Alexis  says  he  's  going  right  away " 
(regret  was  mingled  with  the  joy  of  having 
a  piece  of  news  to  tell).  "Yes,  Alexis  is 
going  away;  he  's  packing  up  now,  and  has 
spoke  for  Foster's  hay-cart  to  move  his  stuff 
to  the  railroad." 

"What  makes  him  so  foolish?"  said  Mr. 
Spooner. 

"He  says  his  folks  expect  him  in  Canada; 
he  's  got  an  aunt  livin'  there  that  owns  a 


210  LITTLE  FRENCH  MARY. 

good  house  and  farm,  and  she  's  gettin'  old 
and  wants  to  have  him  settled  at  home  to 
take  care  of  her." 

"I've  heard  these  French  folks  only  de 
sire  to  get  forehanded  a  little,  and  then  they 
go  right  back  where  they  come  from,"  said 
some  one,  with  an  air  of  disapproval. 

"He  says  he'll  send  another  man  here; 
he  knows  somebody  that  will  be  glad  of  the 
chance,  but  I  don't  seem  to  like  the  idea  so 
well,"  said  Captain  Weathers  doubtfully. 
"We've  all  got  so  used  to  Alexis  and  his 
wife ;  they  know  now  where  we  keep  every 
thing  and  have  got  to  be  so  handy.  Strange 
they  don't  know  when  they  're  well  off.  I 
suppose  it 's  natural  they  should  want  to  be 
with  their  own  folks.  Then  there  's  the  lit 
tle  girl." 

At  this  moment  the  store  door  was  opened 
and  French  Mary  came  in.  She  was  dressed 
in  her  best  and  her  eyes  were  shining. 

"I  go  to  Canada  in  ze  cars!"  she  an 
nounced  joyfully,  and  came  dancing  down 
between  the  two  long  counters  toward  her 
regretful  friends;  they  had  never  seen  her 
so  charming. 

Argument  and  regret  were  impossible  — 
the  forebodings  of  elderly  men  and  their 


LITTLE    FRENCH   MARY.  211 

experience  of  life  were  of  no  use  at  that 
moment,  a  gleam  of  youth  and  hope  was 
theirs  by  sympathy  instead.  A  child's  plea 
sure  in  a  journey  moves  the  dullest  heart; 
the  captain  was  the  first  to  find  some  means 
of  expression. 

"Give  me  some  o'  that  best  candy  for 
her,"  he  commanded  the  storekeeper.  "No, 
take  a  bigger  piece  of  paper,  and  tie  it  up 
well." 

"Ain't  she  dressed  a  little  thin  for  trav- 
elin'?  "  asked  gruff  Mr.  Spooner  anxiously, 
and  for  his  part  he  pointed  the  storekeeper 
to  a  small  bright  plaid  shawl  that  hung  over 
head,  and  stooped  to  wrap  it  himself  about 
the  little  shoulders. 

"I  must  get  the  little  girl  something, 
too,"  said  the  minister,  who  was  a  grand 
father,  and  had  just  come  in  for  his  mail. 
"What  do  you  like  best,  my  dear?"  and 
French  Mary  pointed  shyly,  but  with  in 
stant  decision,  at  a  blue  silk  parasol,  with  a 
white  handle,  which  was  somewhat  the  worse 
for  having  been  openly  displayed  all  sum 
mer.  The  minister  bought  it  with  pleasure, 
like  a  country  boy  at  a  fair,  and  put  into 
her  hand. 

French   Mary  kissed   the   minister   with 


212  LITTLE   FRENCH  MARY. 

rapture,  and  gave  him  her  hand  to  shake, 
then  she  put  down  the  parasol  and  ran  and 
climbed  into  the  old  captain's  lap  and 
hugged  him  with  both  arms  tight  round  his 
neck.  She  considered  for  a  moment  whether 
she  should  kiss  Mr.  Ezra  Spooner  or  not, 
but  happily  did  not  decide  against  it,  and 
said  an  affectionate  good-by  to  him  and  all 
the  rest.  Mr.  Staples  himself  came  out  from 
behind  the  counter  to  say  farewell  and  bestow 
a  square  package  of  raisins.  They  all  fol 
lowed  her  to  the  door,  and  stood  watching 
while  she  tucked  her  bundles  under  her  arm 
and  raised  the  new  parasol,  and  walked  away 
down  the  street  in  the  chilly  autumn  morn 
ing.  She  had  taken  all  her  French  gayety 
and  charm,  all  her  childish  sweetness  and 
dignity  away  with  her.  Little  French  Mary 
had  gone.  Fate  had  plucked  her  like  a 
flower  out  of  their  lives. 

She  did  not  turn  back,  but  when  she  was 
half-way  home  she  began  to  run,  and  the 
new  shawl  was  given  gayly  to  the  breeze. 
The  captain  sighed. 

"I  wish  the  little  girl  well,"  he  said,  and 
turned  away.  "We  shall  miss  her,  but  she 
does  n't  know  what  parting  is.  I  hope  she  '11 
please  'em  just  as  well  in  Canada." 


THE   GUESTS  OF  MRS.   TIMMS. 
I. 

MRS.  PERSIS  FLAGG  stood  in  her  front 
doorway  taking  leave  of  Miss  Cynthia  Pick- 
ett,  who  had  been  making  a  long  call.  They 
were  not  intimate  friends.  Miss  Pickett  al 
ways  came  formally  to  the  front  door  and 
rang  when  she  paid  her  visits,  but,  the  week 
before,  they  had  met  at  the  county  confer 
ence,  and  happened  to  be  sent  to  the  same 
house  for  entertainment,  and  so  had  deep 
ened  and  renewed  the  pleasures  of  acquain 
tance. 

It  was  an  afternoon  in  early  June;  the 
syringa-bushes  were  tall  and  green  on  each 
side  of  the  stone  doorsteps,  and  were  cov 
ered  with  their  lovely  white  and  golden 
flowers.  Miss  Pickett  broke  off  the  nearest 
twig,  and  held  it  before  her  prim  face  as 
she  talked.  She  had  a  pretty  childlike 
smile  that  came  and  went  suddenly,  but  her 
face  was  not  one  that  bore  the  marks  of 
many  pleasures.  Mrs.  Flagg  was  a  tall, 


214         THE    GUESTS    OF   MRS.    TIMMS. 

commanding  sort  of  person,  with  an  air  of 
satisfaction  and  authority. 

"Oh,  yes,  gather  all  you  want,"  she  said 
stiffly,  as  Miss  Pickett  took  the  syringa 
without  having  asked  beforehand;  but  she 
had  an  amiable  expression,  and  just  now  her 
large  countenance  was  lighted  up  by  plea 
sant  anticipation. 

"We  can  tell  early  what  sort  of  a  day 
it 's  goin'  to  be,"  she  said  eagerly.  "There 
ain't  a  cloud  in  the  sky  now.  I  '11  stop  for 
you  as  I  come  along,  or  if  there  should  be 
anything  unforeseen  to  detain  me,  I  '11  send 
you  word.  I  don't  expect  you  'd  want  to 
go  if  it  wa'n't  so  that  I  could?" 

"Oh  my  sakes,  no!  "  answered  Miss  Pick 
ett  discreetly,  with  a  timid  flush.  "You 
feel  certain  that  Mis'  Timms  won't  be  put 
out?  I  shouldn't  feel  free  to  go  unless  I 
went  'long  o'  you." 

"Why,  nothin'  could  be  plainer  than  her 
words,"  said  Mrs.  Flagg  in  a  tone  of  re- 
pro  val.  "You  saw  how  she  urged  me,  an' 
had  over  all  that  talk  about  how  we  used  to 
see  each  other  often  when  we  both  lived  to 
Longport,  and  told  how  she  'd  been  thinkin' 
of  writin',  and  askin'  if  it  wa'n't  so  I  should 
be  able  to  come  over  and  stop  three  or  four 


THE    GUESTS    OF  MRS.    T I  AIMS.        215 

days  as  soon  as  settled  weather  come,  be 
cause  she  could  n't  make  no  fire  in  her  best 
chamber  on  account  of  the  chimbley  smokin' 
if  the  wind  wa'n't  just  right.  You  see  how 
she  felt  toward  me,  kissin'  of  me  comin'  and 
goin'?  Why,  she  even  asked  me  who  I 
employed  to  do  over  my  bonnet,  Miss  Pick- 
ett,  just  as  interested  as  if  she  was  a  sister; 
an'  she  remarked  she  should  look  for  us  any 
pleasant  day  after  we  all  got  home,  an'  were 
settled  after  the  conference." 

Miss  Pickett  smiled,  but  did  not  speak, 
as  if  she  expected  more  arguments  still. 

"An'  she  seemed  just  about  as  much 
gratified  to  meet  with  you  again.  She 
seemed  to  desire  to  meet  you  again  very 
particular,"  continued  Mrs.  Flagg.  "She 
really  urged  us  to  come  together  an'  have  a 
real  good  day  talkin'  over  old  times  —  there, 
don't  le'  's  go  all  over  it  again!  I've  al 
ways  heard  she  'd  made  that  old  house  of 
her  aunt  Bascoms'  where  she  lives  look  real 
handsome.  I  once  heard  her  best  parlor 
carpet  described  as  being  an  elegant  carpet, 
different  from  any  there  was  round  here. 
Why,  nobody  could  n't  be  more  cordial, 
Miss  Pickett;  you  ain't  goin'  to  give  out 
just  at  the  last?" 


216         THE    GUESTS    OF   MRS.    TIMMS. 

"Oh,  no!"  answered  the  visitor  hastily; 
"no,  'm!  I  want  to  go  full  as  much  as  you 
do,  Mis'  Flagg,  but  you  see  I  never  was  so 
well  acquainted  with  Mis'  Cap'n  Timms, 
an'  I  always  seem  to  dread  putting  myself 
for'ard.  She  certain  was  very  urgent,  an' 
she  said  plain  enough  to  come  any  clay  next 
week,  an'  here  't  is  Wednesday,  though  of 
course  she  wouldn't  look  for  us  either  Mon 
day  or  Tuesday.  'Twill  be  a  real  pleasant 
occasion,  an'  now  we  've  been  to  the  confer 
ence  it  don't  seem  near  so  much  effort  to 
start." 

"Why,  I  don't  think  nothin'  of  it,"  said 
Mrs.  Flagg  proudly.  "We  shall  have  a 
grand  good  time,  goin'  together  an'  all,  I 
feel  sure." 

Miss  Pickett  still  played  with  her  syringa 
flower,  tapping  her  thin  cheek,  and  twirling 
the  stem  with  her  fingers.  She  looked  as  if 
she  were  going  to  say  something  more,  but 
after  a  moment's  hesitation  she  turned  away. 

"Good-afternoon,  Mis'  Flagg,"  she  said 
formally,  looking  up  with  a  quick  little 
smile;  "I  enjoyed  my  call;  I  hope  I  ain't 
kep'  you  too  late;  I  don't  know  but  what 
it 's  'most  tea-time.  Well,  I  shall  look  for 
you  in  the  mornin'." 


THE    GUESTS    OF  MRS.    TIM  MS.        217 

"Good-afternoon,  Miss  Pickett;  I  'm  glad 
I  was  in  when  you  came.  Call  again,  won't 
you?"  said  Mrs. 'Flagg.  "Yes;  you  may 
expect  me  in  good  season,"  and  so  they 
parted.  Miss  Pickett  went  out  at  the  neat 
clicking  gate  in  the  white  fence,  and  Mrs. 
Flagg  a  moment  later  looked  out  of  her  sit 
ting-room  window  to  see  if  the  gate  were 
latched,  and  felt  the  least  bit  disappointed 
to  find  that  it  was.  She  sometimes  went 
out  after  the  departure  of  a  guest,  and  fas 
tened  the  gate  herself  with  a  loud,  rebuk 
ing  sound.  Both  of  these  Woodville  women 
lived  alone,  and  were  very  precise  in  their 
way  of  doing  things. 

II. 

The  next  morning  dawned  clear  and 
bright,  and  Miss  Pickett  rose  even  earlier 
than  usual.  She  found  it  most  difficult  to 
decide  which  of  her  dresses  would  be  best  to 
wear.  Summer  was  still  so  young  that  the 
day  had  all  the  freshness  of  spring,  but 
when  the  two  friends  walked  away  together 
along  the  shady  street,  with  a  chorus  of 
golden  robins  singing  high  overhead  in  the 
elms,  Miss  Pickett  decided  that  she  had 
made  a  wise  choice  of  her  second-best  black 


218        THE    GUESTS    OF  MRS.    TIMMS. 

silk  gown,  which  she  had  just  turned  again 
and  freshened.  It  was  neither  too  warm 
for  the  season  nor  too  cool,  nor  did  it  look 
overdressed.  She  wore  her  large  cameo  pin, 
and  this,  with  a  long  watch-chain,  gave  an 
air  of  proper  mural  decoration.  She  was  a 
straight,  flat  little  person,  as  if,  when  not  in 
use,  she  kept  herself,  silk  dress  and  all,  be 
tween  the  leaves  of  a  book.  She  carried  a 
noticeable  parasol  with  a  fringe,  and  a  small 
shawl,  with  a  pretty  border,  neatly  folded 
over  her  left  arm.  Mrs.  Flagg  always 
dressed  in  black  cashmere,  and  looked,  to 
hasty  observers,  much  the  same  one  day  as 
another;  but  her  companion  recognized  the 
fact  that  this  was  the  best  black  cashmere 
of  all,  and  for  a  moment  quailed  at  the 
thought  that  Mrs.  Flagg  was  paying  such 
extreme  deference  to  their  prospective  host 
ess.  The  visit  turned  for  a  moment  into 
an  unexpectedly  solemn  formality,  and  plea 
sure  seemed  to  wane  before  Cynthia  Pick- 
ett's  eyes,  yet  with  great  courage  she  never 
slackened  a  single  step.  Mrs.  Flagg  car 
ried  a  somewhat  worn  black  leather  hand 
bag,  which  Miss  Pickett  regretted;  it  did 
not  give  the  visit  that  casual  and  unpremedi 
tated  air  which  she  felt  to  be  more  elegant. 


THE    GUESTS    OF   MRS.    TIM  MS.        219 

"Sha'n't  I  carry  your  bag  for  you?"  she 
asked  timidly.  Mrs.  Flagg  was  the  older 
and  more  important  person. 

"Oh,  dear  me,  no,"  answered  Mrs.  Flagg. 
"My  pocket's  so  remote,  in  case  I  should 
desire  to  sneeze  or  anything,  that  I  thought 
't  would  be  convenient  for  carrying  my  hand 
kerchief  and  pocket-book;  an'  then  I  just 
tucked  in  a  couple  o'  glasses  o'  my  crab- 
apple  jelly  for  Mis'  Timms.  She  used  to 
be  a  great  hand  for  preserves  of  every  sort, 
an'  I  thought  'twould  be  a  kind  of  an  at 
tention,  an'  give  rise  to  conversation.  I 
know  she  used  to  make  excellent  drop -cakes 
when  we  was  both  residin'  to  Loiigport; 
folks  used  to  say  she  never  would  give  the 
right  receipt,  but  if  I  get  a  real  good  chance, 
I  mean  to  ask  her.  Or  why  can't  you,  if  I 
start  talkin'  about  receipts  —  why  can't  you 
say,  sort  of  innocent,  that  I  have  always 
spoken  frequently  of  her  drop-cakes,  an' 
ask  for  the  rule?  She  would  be  very  sensi 
ble  to  the  compliment,  and  could  pass  it  off 
if  she  didn't  feel  to  indulge  us.  There,  I 
do  so  wish  you  would !  " 

"Yes,  'm,"  said  Miss  Pickett  doubtfully; 
"I'll  try  to  make  the  opportunity.  I'm 
very  partial  to  drop-cakes.  Was  they  flour 
or  rye,  Mis'  Flagg?  " 


220        THE    GUESTS    OF  MRS.    TIMMS. 

"They  was  flour,  dear,"  replied  Mrs. 
Flagg  approvingly;  "crisp  an'  light  as  any 
you  ever  see." 

"I  wish  I  had  thought  to  carry  somethin' 
to  make  it  pleasant,"  said  Miss  Pickett, 
after  they  had  walked  a  little  farther;  "but 
there,  I  don't  know  's  't  would  look  just 
right,  this  first  visit,  to  offer  anything  to 
such  a  person  as  Mis'  Timms.  In  case  I 
ever  go  over  to  Baxter  again  I  won't  forget 
to  make  her  some  little  present,  as  nice  as 
I  've  got.  'T  was  certain  very  polite  of  her 
to  urge  me  to  come  with  you.  I  did  feel 
very  doubtful  at  first.  I  did  n't  know  but 
she  thought  it  behooved  her,  because  I  was 
in  your  company  at  the  conference,  and  she 
wanted  to  save  my  feelin's,  and  yet  expected 
I  would  decline.  I  never  was  well  ac 
quainted  with  her ;  our  folks  was  n't  well  off 
when  I  first  knew  her ;  't  was  before  uncle 
Cap'n  Dyer  passed  away  an'  remembered 
mother  an'  me  in  his  will.  We  couldn't 
make  no  han'some  companies  in  them  days, 
so  we  did  n't  go  to  none,  an'  kep'  to  our 
selves  ;  but  in  my  grandmother's  time,  mo 
ther  always  said,  the  families  was  very 
friendly.  I  shouldn't  feel  like  goin'  over 
to  pass  the  day  with  Mis'  Timms  if  I  did  n't 


THE    GUESTS    OF  MRS.    TIMMS.        221 

mean  to  ask  her  to  return  the  visit.  Some 
don't  think  o'  these  things,  but  mother  was 
very  set  about  not  bein'  done  for  when  she 
couldn't  make  no  return." 

" 4  When  it  rains  porridge  hold  up  your 
dish,' "  said  Mrs.  Flagg;  but  Miss  Pickett 
made  no  response  beyond  a  feeble  "Yes,  'in," 
which  somehow  got  caught  in  her  pale -green 
bonnet-strings. 

"There,  't ain't  no  use  to  fuss  too  much 
over  all  them  things,"  proclaimed  Mrs. 
Flagg,  walking  along  at  a  good  pace  with 
a  fine  sway  of  her  skirts,  and  carrying  her 
head  high.  "Folks  walks  right  by  an'  for- 
gits  all  about  you;  folks  can't  always  be 
going  through  with  just  so  much.  You  'd 
had  a  good  deal  better  time,  you  an'  your 
ma,  if  you  'd  been  freer  in  your  ways ;  now 
don't  you  s'pose  you  would?  'T ain't  what 
you  give  folks  to  eat  so  much  as  't  is  mak- 
in'  'em  feel  welcome.  Now,  there  's  Mis' 
Timms ;  when  we  was  to  Longport  she  was 
dreadful  methodical.  She  would  n't  let 
Cap'n  Timms  fetch  nobody  home  to  dinner 
without  lettin'  of  her  know,  same 's  other 
cap'ns'  wives  had  to  submit  to.  I  was  think- 
in',  when  she  was  so  cordial  over  to  Danby, 
how  she  'd  softened  with  time.  Years  do 


222        TEE    GUESTS    OF  MRS.    TIM  MS. 

learn  folks  somethin'I  She  did  seem  very 
pleasant  an'  desirous.  There,  I  am  so  glad 
we  got  started ;  if  she  'd  gone  an'  got  up  a 
real  good  dinner  to-day,  an'  then  not  had  us 
come  till  to-morrow,  't  would  have  been  real 
too  bad.  Where  anybody  lives  alone  such 
a  thing  is  very  tryin'." 

"  Oh,  so  't  is  !  "  said  Miss  Pickett. 
"  There,  I  'd  like  to  tell  you  what  I  went 
through  with  year  before  last.  They  come 
an'  asked  me  one  Saturday  night  to  enter 
tain  the  minister,  that  time  we  was  having 
candidates  " 

"I  guess  we 'd  better  step  along  faster," 
said  Mrs.  Flagg  suddenly.  "Why,  Miss 
Pickett,  there  's  the  stage  comin'  now !  It 's 
dreadful  prompt,  seems  to  me.  Quick! 
there 's  folks  awaitin',  an'  I  sha'n't  get  to 
Baxter  in  no  state  to  visit  Mis'  Cap'n  Timms 
if  I  have  to  ride  all  the  way  there  back 
ward!" 

in. 

The  stage  was  not  full  inside.  The  group 
before  the  store  proved  to  be  made  up  of 
spectators,  except  one  man,  who  climbed  at 
once  to  a  vacant  seat  by  the  driver.  Inside 
there  was  only  one  person,  after  two  passen 
gers  got  out,  and  she  preferred  to  sit  with 


THE    GUESTS    OF   MfiS.    TIMUfS.        223 

her  back  to  the  horses,  so  that  Mrs.  Flagg 
and  Miss  Pickett  settled  themselves  comfort 
ably  in  the  coveted  corners  of  the  back 
seat.  At  first  they  took  no  notice  of  their 
companion,  and  spoke  to  each  other  in  low 
tones,  but  presently  something  attracted  the 
attention  of  all  three  and  engaged  them  in 
conversation . 

"I  never  was  over  this  road  before,"  said 
the  stranger.  "I  s'pose  you  ladies  are  well 
acquainted  all  along." 

"We  have  often  traveled  it  in  past  years. 
We  was  over  this  part  of  it  last  week  goin' 
and  comin'  from  the  county  conference," 
said  Mrs.  Flagg  in  a  dignified  manner. 

"What  persuasion?"  inquired  the  fellow- 
traveler,  with  interest. 

"Orthodox,"  said  Miss  Pickett  quickly, 
before  Mrs.  Flagg  could  speak.  "It  was  a 
very  interestin'  occasion ;  this  other  lady  an' 
me  stayed  through  all  the  meetin's." 

"I  ain't  Orthodox,"  announced  the 
stranger,  waiving  any  interest  in  personali 
ties.  "I  was  brought  up  amongst  the  Free 
will  Baptists." 

"We  're  well  acquainted  with  several  of 
that  denomination  in  our  place,"  said  Mrs. 
Flagg,  not  without  an  air  of  patronage. 


224         THE    GUESTS    OF  MRS.    TIM  MS. 

"  They  Ve  never  built  'em  no  church ;  there 
ain't  but  a  scattered  few." 

"They  prevail  where  I  come  from,"  said 
the  traveler.  "  I  'm  goin'  now  to  visit  with 
a  Freewill  lady.  We  was  to  a  conference 
together  once,  same 's  you  an'  your  friend, 
but  't  was  a  state  conference.  She  asked 
me  to  come  some  time  an'  make  her  a  good 
visit,  and  I  'm  on  my  way  now.  I  did  n't 
seem  to  have  nothin'  to  keep  me  to  home." 

"  We  're  all  goin'  visitin'  to-day,  ain't 
we?  "  said  Mrs.  Flagg  sociably;  but  no  one 
carried  on  the  conversation. 

The  day  was  growing  very  warm ;  there 
was  dust  in  the  sandy  road,  but  the  fields  of 
grass  and  young  growing  crops  looked  fresh 
and  fair.  There  was  a  light  haze  over  the 
hills,  and  birds  were  thick  in  the  air. 
When  the  stage-horses  stopped  to  walk,  you 
could  hear  the  crows  caw,  and  the  bobolinks 
singing,  in  the  meadows.  All  the  farmers 
were  busy  in  their  fields. 

"  It  don't  seem  but  little  ways  to  Baxter, 
does  it?"  said  Miss  Pickett,  after  a  while. 
"I  felt  we  should  pass  a  good  deal  o'  time 
on  the  road,  but  we  must  be  pretty  near 
half-way  there  a'ready." 

"Why,  more'n    half!"  exclaimed    Mrs. 


THE    GUESTS    OF  MRS.    TIMMS.        225 

Flagg.  "Yes;  there  's  Beckett's  Corner 
right  ahead,  an  the  old  Beckett  house.  I 
have  n't  been  on  this  part  of  the  road  for  so 
long  that  I  feel  kind  of  strange.  I  used  to 
visit  over  here  when  I  was  a  girl.  There  ?s 
a  nephew's  widow  owns  the  place  now.  Old 
Miss  Susan  Beckett  willed  it  to  him,  an'  he 
died;  but  she  resides  there  an'  carries  on 
the  farm,  an  unusual  smart  woman,  every 
body  says.  Ain't  it  pleasant  here,  right  out 
among  the  farms !  " 

"Mis'  Beckett's  place,  did  you  observe?" 
said  the  stranger,  leaning  forward  to  listen 
to  what  her  companions  said.      "I  expect 
that 's  where  I  'in  goin'  —  Mis'  Ezra  Beck 
ett's?" 

"That's  the  one,"  said  Miss  Pickett  and 
Mrs.  Flagg  together,  and  they  both  looked 
out  eagerly  as  the  coach  drew  up  to  the  front 
door  of  a  large  old  yellow  house  that  stood 
close  upon  the  green  turf  of  the  roadside. 

The  passenger  looked  pleased  and  eager, 
and  made  haste  to  leave  the  stage  with  her 
many  bundles  and  bags.  While  she  stood 
impatiently  tapping  at  the  brass  knocker, 
the  stage-driver  landed  a  large  trunk,  and 
dragged  it  toward  the  door  across  the  grass. 
Just  then  a  busy-looking  middle-aged  wo- 


226         THE    GUESTS    OF   MRS.    TIMMS. 

man  made  her  appearance,  with  floury  hands 
and  a  look  as  if  she  were  prepared  to  be 
somewhat  on  the  defensive. 

"Why,  how  do  you  do,  Mis'  Beckett?" 
exclaimed  the  guest.  "Well,  here  I  be  at 
last.  I  did  n't  know  's  you  thought  I  was 
ever  comin'.  Why,  I  do  declare,  I  believe 
you  don't  recognize  me,  Mis'  Beckett." 

"I  believe  I  don't,"  said  the  self-possessed 
hostess.  "Ain't  you  made  some  mistake, 
ma'am?" 

"Why,  don't  you  recollect  we  was  to 
gether  that  time  to  the  state  conference,  an' 
you  said  you  should  be  pleased  to  have  me 
come  an'  make  you  a  visit  some  time,  an'  I 
said  I  would  certain.  There,  I  expect  I 
look  more  natural  to  you  now." 

Mrs.  Beckett  appeared  to  be  making  the 
best  possible  effort,  and  gave  a  bewildered 
glance,  first  at  her  unexpected  visitor,  and 
then  at  the  trunk.  The  stage-driver,  who 
watched  this  encounter  with  evident  delight, 
turned  away  with  reluctance.  "I  can't  wait 
all  day  to  see  how  they  settle  it,"  he  said, 
and  mounted  briskly  to  the  box,  and  the 
stage  rolled  on. 

"He  might  have  waited  just  a  minute  to 
see,"  said  Miss  Pickett  indignantly,  but 


THE    GUESTS    OF  MRS.    TIMMS.        227 

Mrs.  Flagg's  head  and  shoulders  were  al 
ready  far  out  of  the  stage  window  —  the 
house  was  on  her  side.  "  She  ain't  got  in 
yet,"  she  told  Miss  Pickett  triumphantly. 
"I  could  see  'em  quite  a  spell.  With  that 
trunk,  too!  I  do  declare,  how  inconsider 
ate  some  folks  is! " 

"  'T  was  pushin'  an  acquaintance  most 
too  far,  wa'n'tit?"  agreed  Miss  Pickett. 
"There,  't  will  be  somethin'  laughable  to 
tell  Mis'  Timms.  I  never  see  anything 
more  divertin'.  I  shall  kind  of  pity  that 
woman  if  we  have  to  stop  an'  git  her  as  we 
go  back  this  afternoon." 

"Oh,  don't  let 's  forgit  to  watch  for  her," 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Flagg,  beginning  to  brush 
off  the  dust  of  travel.  "There,  I  feel  an 
excellent  appetite,  don't  you?  And  we  ain't 
got  more  '11  three  or  four  miles  to  go,  if  we 
have  that.  I  wonder  what  Mis'  Timms  is 
likely  to  give  us  for  dinner ;  she  spoke  of 
makin'  a  good  many  chicken  -  pies,  an'  I 
happened  to  remark  how  partial  I  was  to 
'em.  She  felt  above  most  of  the  things  we 
had  provided  for  us  over  to  the  conference. 
I  know  she  was  always  counted  the  best  o' 
cooks  when  I  knew  her  so  well  to  Longport. 
Now,  don't  you  forget,  if  there  's  a  suitable 


228        THE    GUESTS    OF  MRS.    TIM  MS. 

opportunity,  to  inquire  about  the  drop- 
cakes;"  and  Miss  Pickett,  a  little  less 
doubtful  than  before,  renewed  her  promise. 

IV. 

"My  gracious,  won't  Mis'  Timms  be 
pleased  to  see  us !  It 's  just  exactly  the  day 
to  have  company.  And  ain't  Baxter  a  sweet 
pretty  place?"  said  Mrs.  Flagg,  as  they 
walked  up  the  main  street.  "  Cynthy  Pick 
ett,  now  ain't  you  proper  glad  you  come? 
I  felt  sort  o'  calm  about  it  part  o'  the  time 
yesterday,  but  I  ain't  felt  so  like  a  girl  for 
a  good  while.  I  do  believe  I  'm  goin'  to 
have  a  splendid  time." 

Miss  Pickett  glowed  with  equal  pleasure 
as  she  paced  along.  She  was  less  expansive 
and  enthusiastic  than  her  companion,  but 
now  that  they  were  fairly  in  Baxter,  she  lent 
herself  generously  to  the  occasion.  The 
social  distinction  of  going  away  to  spend  a 
day  in  company  with  Mrs.  Flagg  was  by  no 
means  small.  She  arranged  the  folds  of  her 
shawl  more  carefully  over  her  arm  so  as  to 
show  the  pretty  palm  -leaf  border,  and  then 
looked  up  with  great  approval  to  the  row  of 
great  maples  that  shaded  the  broad  sidewalk. 
"I  wonder  if  we  can't  contrive  to  make  time 


THE    GUESTS    OF  MRS.    TIM  MS.        229 

to  go  an'  see  old  Miss  Nancy  Fell?"  she 
ventured  to  ask  Mrs.  Flagg.  "There  ain't 
a  great  deal  o'  time  before  the  stage  goes 
at  four  o'clock ;  't  will  pass  quickly,  but  I 
should  hate  to  have  her  feel  hurt.  If  she 
was  one  we  had  visited  often  at  home,  I 
should  n't  care  so  much,  but  such  folks  feel 
any  little  slight.  She  was  a  member  of  our 
church;  I  think  a  good  deal  of  that." 

"Well,  I  hardly  know  what  to  say,"  fal 
tered  Mrs.  Flagg  coldly.  "We  might  just 
look  in  a  minute ;  I  should  n't  want  her  to 
feel  hurt." 

"She  was  one  that  always  did  her  part, 
too,"  said  Miss  Pickett,  more  boldly.  "Mr. 
Cronin  used  to  say  that  she  was  more  gen 
erous  with  her  little  than  many  was  with 
their  much.  If  she  hadn't  lived  in  a  poor 
part  of  the  town,  and  so  been  occupied  with 
a  different  kind  of  people  from  us,  't  would 
have  made  a  difference.  They  say  she 's  got 
a  comfortable  little  home  over  here,  an' 
keeps  house  for  a  nephew.  You  know  she 
was  to  our  meeting  one  Sunday  last  winter, 
and  'peared  dreadful  glad  to  get  back;  folks 
seemed  glad  to  see  her,  too.  I  don't  know 
as  you  were  out." 

"She  always  wore  a  friendly  look,"  said 


230        THE    GUESTS    OF  MRS.    TIMMS. 

Mrs.  Flagg  indulgently.  "There,  now, 
there  's  Mis'  Timms's  residence ;  it 's  hand 
some,  ain't  it,  with  them  big  spruce-trees? 
I  expect  she  may  be  at  the  window  now,  an' 
see  us  as  we  come  along.  Is  my  bonnet  on 
straight,  an'  everything?  The  blinds  looks 
open  in  the  room  this  way ;  I  guess  she  's  to 
home  fast  enough." 

The  friends  quickened  their  steps,  and 
with  shilling  eyes  and  beating  hearts  has 
tened  forward.  The  slightest  mists  of  un 
certainty  were  now  cleared  away ;  they  gazed 
at  the  house  with  deepest  pleasure ;  the  visit 
was  about  to  begin. 

They  opened  the  front  gate  and  went  up 
the  short  walk,  noticing  the  pretty  herring 
bone  pattern  of  the  bricks,  and  as  they  stood 
on  the  high  steps  Cynthia  Pickett  wondered 
whether  she  ought  not  to  have  worn  her  best 
dress-,  even  though  there  was  lace  at  the  neck 
and  sleeves,  and  she  usually  kept  it  for  the 
most  formal  of  tea-parties  and  exceptional 
parish  festivals.  In  her  heart  she  com 
mended  Mrs.  Flagg  for  that  familiarity  with 
the  ways  of  a  wider  social  world  which  had 
led  her  to  wear  the  very  best  among  her 
black  cashmeres. 

"She  'sa  good  while  coming  to  the  door," 


THE    GUESTS    OF  MRS.    TIMMS.        231 

whispered  Mrs.  Flagg  presently.  "Either 
she  didn't  see  us,  or  else  she's  slipped  up 
stairs  to  make  some  change,  an'  is  just  goin' 
to  let  us  ring  again.  I  've  done  it  myself 
sometimes.  I  'in  glad  we  come  right  over 
after  her  urgin'  us  so ;  it  seems  more  cordial 
than  to  keep  her  expectin'  us.  I  expect 
she  '11  urge  us  terribly  to  remain  with  her 
over-night." 

"Oh,  I  ain't  prepared, "began  Miss  Pick- 
ett,  but  she  looked  pleased.  At  that  mo 
ment  there  was  a  slow  withdrawal  of  the 
bolt  inside,  and  a  key  was  turned,  the  front 
door  opened,  and  Mrs.  Timms  stood  before 
them  with  a  smile.  Nobody  stopped  to  think 
at  that  moment  what  kind  of  smile  it  was. 

"Why,  if  it  ain't  Mis'  Flagg,"  she  ex 
claimed  politely,  "  an'  Miss  Pickett  too !  I 
am  surprised!  " 

The  front  entry  behind  her  looked  well 
furnished,  but  not  exactly  hospitable;  the 
stairs  with  their  brass  rods  looked  so  clean 
and  bright  that  it  did  not  seem  as  if  any 
body  had  ever  gone  up  or  come  down.  A 
cat  came  purring  out,  but  Mrs.  Timms 
pushed  her  back  with  a  determined  foot,  and 
hastily  closed  the  sitting-room  door.  Then 
Miss  Pickett  let  Mrs.  Flagg  precede  her,  as 


232        THE    GUESTS    OF  MRS.    TIM  MS. 

was  becoming,  and  they  went  into  a  dark 
ened  parlor,  and  found  their  way  to  some 
chairs,  and  seated  themselves  solemnly. 

"'Tis  a  beautiful  day,  ain't  it?"  said 
Mrs.  Flagg,  speaking  first.  "I  don't  know 's 
I  ever  enjoyed  the  ride  more.  We  've  been 
having  a  good  deal  of  rain  since  we  saw  you 
at  the  conference,  and  the  country  looks 
beautiful." 

"Did  you  leave  Woodville  this  morning? 
I  thought  I  hadn't  heard  you  was  in  town," 
replied  Mrs.  Timms  formally.  She  was 
seated  just  a  little  too  far  away  to  make 
things  seem  exactly  pleasant.  The  darkness 
of  the  best  room  seemed  to  retreat  somewhat, 
and  Miss  Pickett  looked  over  by  the  door, 
where  there  was  a  pale  gleam  from  the  side 
lights  in  the  hall,  to  try  to  see  the  pattern 
of  the  carpet ;  but  her  effort  failed. 

uYes,  'm,"  replied  Mrs.  Flagg  to  the 
question.  "We  left  Woodville  about  half 
past  eight,  but  it  is  quite  a  ways  from  where 
we  live  to  where  you  take  the  stage.  The 
stage  does  come  slow,  but  you  don't  seem  to 
mind  it  such  a  beautiful  day." 

"Why,  you  must  have  come  right  to  see 
me  first!"  said  Mrs.  Timms,  warming  a 
little  as  the  visit  went  on.  "  I  hope  you  're 


THE    GUESTS    OF   MRS.    TIM  MS.        233 

going  to  make  some  stop  in  town.  I  'm  sure 
it  was  very  polite  of  you  to  come  right  an' 
see  me;  well,  it's  very  pleasant,  I  declare. 
I  wish  you  'd  been  in  Baxter  last  Sabbath ; 
our  minister  did  give  us  an  elegant  sermon 
on  faith  an'  works.  He  spoke  of  the  con 
ference,  and  gave  his  views  on  some  o'  the 
questions  that  came  up,  at  Friday  evenin' 
meetin' ;  but  I  felt  tired  after  getting  home, 
an'  so  I  was  n't  out.  We  feel  very  much 
favored  to  have  such  a  man  amon'st  us. 
He  's  building  up  the  parish  very  considera 
ble.  I  "understand  the  pew-rents  come  to 
thirty  -  six  dollars  more  this  quarter  than 
they  did  last." 

"We  also  feel  grateful  in  Woodville  for 
our  pastor's  efforts,"  said  Miss  Pickett;  but 
Mrs.  Timms  turned  her  head  away  sharply, 
as  if  the  speech  had  been  untimely,  and 
trembling  Miss  Pickett  had  interrupted. 

"They're  thinking  here  of  raisin'  Mr. 
Barlow's  salary  another  year,"  the  hostess 
added;  "a  good  many  of  the  old  parishion 
ers  have  died  off,  but  every  one  feels  to 
do  what  they  can.  Is  there  much  interest 
among  the  young  people  in  Woodville,  Mis' 
Flagg?" 

"Considerable  at  this  time,  ma'am,"  an- 


234         THE    GUESTS    OF   MRS.    TIMMS. 

swered  Mrs.  Flagg,  without  enthusiasm,  and 
she  listened  with  unusual  silence  to  the  sub 
sequent  fluent  remarks  of  Mrs.  Timms. 

The  parlor  seemed  to  be  undergoing  the 
slow  processes  of  a  winter  dawn.  After  a 
while  the  three  women  could  begin  to  see 
one  another's  faces,  which  aided  them  some 
what  in  carrying  on  a  serious  and  impersonal 
conversation.  There  were  a  good  many  sub 
jects  to  be  touched  upon,  and  Mrs.  Timms 
said  everything  that  she  should  have  said, 
except  to  invite  her  visitors  to  walk  upstairs 
and  take  off  their  bonnets.  Mrs.  -Flagg  sat 
her  parlor-chair  as  if  it  were  a  throne,  and 
carried  her  banner  of  self-possession  as  high 
as  she  knew  how,  but  toward  the  end  of  the 
call  even  she  began  to  feel  hurried. 

"  Won't  you  ladies  take  a  glass  of  wine  an' 
a  piece  of  cake  after  your  ride?"  inquired 
Mrs.  Timms,  with  an  air  of  hospitality  that 
almost  concealed  the  fact  that  neither  cake 
nor  wine  was  anywhere  to  be  seen;  but  the 
ladies  bowed  and  declined  with  particular 
elegance.  Altogether  it  was  a  visit  of  ex 
treme  propriety  on  both  sides,  and  Mrs. 
Timms  was  very  pressing  in  her  invitation 
that  her  guests  should  stay  longer. 

"Thank  you,  but  we  ought  to  be  going," 


THE    GUESTS    OF  MRS.    TIMMS.        235 

answered  Mrs.  Flagg,  with  a  little  show  of 
ostentation,  and  looking  over  her  shoulder 
to  be  sure  that  Miss  Pickett  had  risen  too. 
"We've  got  some  little  ways  to  go,"  she 
added  with  dignity.  "  We  should  be  pleased 
to  have  you  call  an'  see  us  in  case  you  have 
occasion  to  come  to  Woodville,"  and  Miss 
Pickett  faintly  seconded  the  invitation.  It 
was  in  her  heart  to  add,  "Come  any  day 
next  week,"  but  her  courage  did  not  rise  so 
high  as  to  make  the  words  audible.  She 
looked  as  if  she  were  ready  to  cry ;  her  usual 
smile  had  burnt  itself  out  into  gray  ashes ; 
there  was  a  white,  appealing  look  about  her 
mouth.  As  they  emerged  from  the  dim  parlor 
and  stood  at  the  open  front  door,  the  bright 
June  day,  the  golden  -  green  trees,  almost 
blinded  their  eyes.  Mrs.  Timms  was  more 
smiling  and  cordial  than  ever. 

"There,  I  ought  to  have  thought  to  offer 
you  fans ;  I  am  afraid  you  was  warm  after 
walking,"  she  exclaimed,  as  if  to  leave  no 
stone  of  courtesy  unturned.  "I  have  so  en 
joyed  meeting  you  again,  I  wish  it  was  so 
you  could  stop  longer.  Why,  Mis'  Flagg, 
we  have  n't  said  one  word  about  old  times 
when  we  lived  to  Longport.  I  've  had  news 
from  there,  too,  since  I  saw  you;  my  bro- 


236        THE    GUESTS    OF  MRS.    TIM  MS. 

ther's  daughter-in-law  was  here  to  pass  the 
Sabbath  after  I  returned." 

Mrs.  Flagg  did  not  turn  back  to  ask  any 
questions  as  she  stepped  stiffly  away  down 
the  brick  walk.  Miss  Pickett  followed  her, 
raising  the  fringed  parasol;  they  both  made 
ceremonious  little  bows  as  they  shut  the  high 
white  gate  behind  them.  "Good-by,"  said 
Mrs.  Timms  finally,  as  she  stood  in  the  door 
with  her  set  smile ;  and  as  they  departed  she 
came  out  and  began  to  fasten  up  a  rose 
bush  that  climbed  a  narrow  white  ladder  by 
the  steps. 

"Oh,  my  goodness  alive !  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Flagg,  after  they  had  gone  some  distance  in 
aggrieved  silence,  "if  I  haven't  gone  and 
forgotten  my  bag !  I  ain't  goin'  back,  what 
ever  happens.  I  expect  she  '11  trip  over  it 
in  that  dark  room  and  break  her  neck!  " 

"  I  brought  it ;  I  noticed  you  'd  forgotten 
it,"  said  Miss  Pickett  timidly,  as  if  she 
hated  to  deprive  her  companion  of  even  that 
slight  consolation. 

"  There,  I  '11  tell  you  what  we  'd  better  do," 
said  Mrs.  Flagg  gallantly;  "we  '11  go  right 
over  an'  see  poor  old  Miss  Nancy  Fell;  't  will 
please  her  about  to  death.  We  can  say  we 
felt  like  goin'  somewhere  to-day,  an'  't  was 


THE    GUESTS    OF  MRS.    TIM  MS.        237 

a  good  many  years  since  either  one  of  us  had 
seen  Baxter,  so  we  come  just  for  the  ride, 
an'  to  make  a  few  calls.  She  '11  like  to  hear 
all  about  the  conference;  Miss  Fell  was 
always  one  that  took  a  real  interest  in  reli 
gious  matters." 

Miss  Pickett  brightened,  and  they  quick 
ened  their  step.  It  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock, 
they  had  breakfasted  early,  and  now  felt  as 
if  they  had  eaten  nothing  since  they  were 
grown  up.  An  awful  feeling  of  tiredness 
and  uncertainty  settled  down  upon  their  once 
buoyant  spirits. 

"I  can  forgive  a  person,"  said  Mrs.  Flagg, 
once,  as  if  she  were  speaking  to  herself ;  "  I 
can  forgive  a  person,  but  when  I  'in  done 
with  'em,  I  'm  done." 

v. 

"I  do  declare,  't  was  like  a  scene  in 
Scriptur'  to  see  that  poor  good  -  hearted 
Nancy  Fell  run  down  her  walk  to  open  the 
gate  for  us!"  said  Mrs.  Persis  Flagg  later 
that  afternoon,  when  she  and  Miss  Pickett 
were  going  home  in  the  stage.  Miss  Pickett 
nodded  her  head  approvingly. 

"  I  had  a  good  sight  better  time  with  her 
than  I  should  have  had  at  the  other  place," 


238    THE  GUESTS  OF  MRS.  TIMMS. 

she  said  with  fearless  honesty.  "If  I  *d 
been  Mis'  Cap'n  Timms,  I  'd  made  some 
apology  or  just  passed  us  the  compliment. 
If  it  wa'n't  convenient,  why  could  n't  she 
just  tell  us  so  after  all  her  urgin'  and  say  in' 
how  she  should  expect  us?  " 

"I  thought  then  she  'd  altered  from  what 
she  used  to  be,"  said  Mrs.  Flagg.  "She 
seemed  real  sincere  an'  open  away  from 
home.  If  she  wa'n't  prepared  to-day, 
't  was  easy  enough  to  say  so ;  we  was  rea 
sonable  folks,  an'  should  have  gone  away 
with  none  but  friendly  feelin's.  We  did 
have  a  grand  good  time  with  Nancy.  She 
was  as  happy  to  see  us  as  if  we  'd  been 
queens." 

U'T  was  a  real  nice  little  dinner,"  said 
Miss  Pickett  gratefully.  "  I  thought  I  was 
goin'  to  faint  away  just  before  we  got  to  the 
house,  and  I  did  n't  know  how  I  should  hold 
out  if  she  undertook  to  do  anything  extra, 
and  keep  us  a-waitin';  but  there,  she  just 
made  us  welcome,  simple-hearted,  to  what 
she  had.  I  never  tasted  such  dandelion 
greens;  an'  that  nice  little  piece  o'  pork 
and  new  biscuit,  why,  they  was  just  splen 
did.  She  must  have  an  excellent  good  cel 
lar,  if  't  is  such  a  small  house.  Her  pota- 


THE    GUESTS    OF  MRS.    TIMMS.        239 

toes  was  truly  remarkable  for  this  time  o' 
year.  I  myself  don't  deem  it  necessary  to 
cook  potatoes  when  I  'm  goin'  to  have  dan 
delion  greens.  Now,  didn't  it  put  you  in 
mind  of  that  verse  in  the  Bible  that  says, 
4  Better  is  a  dinner  of  herbs  where  love  is '  ? 
An'  how  desirous  she  'd  been  to  see  some 
body  that  could  tell  her  some  particulars 
about  the  conference!  " 

"  She  '11  enjoy  tellin'  folks  about  our 
comin'  over  to  see  her.  Yes,  I  'm  glad  we 
went ;  't  will  be  of  advantage  every  way, 
an'  our  bein'  of  the  same  church  an'  all,  to 
Woodville.  If  Mis'  Timnis  hears  of  our 
bein'  there,  she  '11  see  we  had  reason,  an' 
knew  of  a  place  to  go.  Well,  I  need  n't 
have  brought  this  old  bag!  " 

Miss  Pickett  gave  her  companion  a  quick 
resentful  glance,  which  was  followed  by  one 
of  triumph  directed  at  the  dust  that  was 
collecting  on  the  shoulders  of  the  best  black 
cashmere ;  then  she  looked  at  the  bag  on  the 
front  seat,  and  suddenly  felt  illuminated 
with  the  suspicion  that  Mrs.  Flagg  had 
secretly  made  preparations  to  pass  the  night 
in  Baxter.  The  bag  looked  plump,  as  if  it 
held  much  more  than  the  pocket-book  and 
the  jelly. 


240        THE    GUESTS    OF  MRS.    TIMMS. 

Mrs.  Flagg  looked  up  with  unusual  humil 
ity.  "I  did  think  about  that  jelly,"  she  said, 
as  if  Miss  Pickett  had  openly  reproached 
her.  "I  was  afraid  it  might  look  as  if  I 
was  tryin'  to  pay  Nancy  for  her  kindness." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Cynthia;  "I 
guess  she  'd  been  pleased.  She  'd  thought 
you  just  brought  her  over  a  little  present: 
but  I  do'  know  as  't  would  been  any  good  to 
her  after  all ;  she  'd  thought  so  much  of  it, 
comin'  from  you,  that  she  'd  kep'  it  till 't  was 
all  candied."  But  Mrs.  Flagg  did  n't  look 
exactly  pleased  by  this  unexpected  compli 
ment,  and  her  fellow-traveler  colored  with 
confusion  and  a  sudden  feeling  that  she  had 
shown  undue  forwardness. 

Presently  they  remembered  the  Beckett 
house,  to  their  great  relief,  and,  as  they 
approached,  Mrs.  Flagg  reached  over  and 
moved  her  hand-bag  from  the  front  seat 
to  make  room  for  another  passenger.  But 
nobody  came  out  to  stop  the  stage,  and 
they  saw  the  unexpected  guest  sitting  by 
one  of  the  front  windows  comfortably  sway 
ing  a  palm -leaf  fan,  and  rocking  to  and  fro 
in  calm  content.  They  shrank  back  into 
their  corners,  and  tried  not  to  be  seen. 
Mrs.  Flagg's  face  grew  very  red. 


THE    GUESTS    OF  MRS.    TIMMS.        241 

"She  got  in,  didn't  she?"  said  Miss 
Pickett,  snipping  her  words  angrily,  as  if 
her  lips  were  scissors.  Then  she  heard  a 
call,  and  bent  forward  to  see  Mrs.  Beckett 
herself  appear  in  the  front  doorway,  very 
smiling  and  eager  to  stop  the  stage. 

The  driver  was  only  too  ready  to  stop 
his  horses.  "Got  a  passenger  for  me  to 
carry  back,  ain't  ye?"  said  he  facetiously. 
"  Them  's  the  kind  I  like ;  carry  both  ways, 
make  somethin'  on  a  double  trip,"  and  he 
gave  Mrs.  Flagg  and  Miss  Pickett  a  friendly 
wink  as  he  stepped  down  over  the  wheel. 
Then  he  hurried  toward  the  house,  evidently 
in  a  hurry  to  put  the  baggage  on ;  but  the 
expected  passenger  still  sat  rocking  and 
fanning  at  the  window. 

"No,  sir;  I  ain't  got  any  passengers," 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Beckett,  advancing  a  step 
or  two  to  meet  him,  and  speaking  very  loud 
in  her  pleasant  excitement.  "This  lady 
that  come  this  morning  wants  her  large 
trunk  with  her  summer  things  that  she  left 
to  the  depot  in  Woodville.  She  's  very  de 
sirous  to  git  into  it,  so  don't  you  go  an'  for- 
git;  ain't  you  got  a  book  or  somethin',  Mr. 
Ma'sh  ?  Don't  you  f orgit  to  make  a  note  of 
it ;  here 's  her  check,  an'  we  've  kep'  the 


242        THE    GUESTS    OF  MRS.    TIM  MS. 

number  in  case  you  should  mislay  it  or 
anything.  There  's  things  in  the  trunk  she 
needs ;  you  know  how  you  overlooked  stop- 
pin'  to  the  milliner's  for  my  bunnit  last 
week." 

"Other  folks  disremembers  things  as 
well's  me,"  grumbled  Mr.  Marsh.  He 
turned  to  give  the  passengers  another  wink 
more  familiar  than  the  first,  but  they  wore 
an  offended  air,  and  were  looking  the  other 
way.  The  horses  had  backed  a  few  steps, 
and  the  guest  at  the  front  window  had 
ceased  the  steady  motion  of  her  fan  to 
make  them  a  handsome  bow,  and  been 
puzzled  at  the  lofty  manner  of  their  ac 
knowledgment. 

"Go  'long  with  your  foolish  jokes,  John 
Ma'sh!"  Mrs.  Beckett  said  cheerfully,  as 
she  turned  away.  She  was  a  comfortable, 
hearty  person,  whose  appearance  adjusted 
the  beauties  of  hospitality.  The  driver 
climbed  to  his  seat,  chuckling,  and  drove 
away  with  the  dust  flying  after  the  wheels. 

"Now,  she's  a  friendly  sort  of  a  woman, 
that  Mis'  Beckett,"  said  Mrs.  Flagg  unex 
pectedly,  after  a  few  moments  of  silence, 
when  she  and  her  friend  had  been  unable  to 
look  at  each  other.  "I  really  ought  to  call 


THE    GUESTS    OF  MRS.    TIMMS.        243 

over  an'  see  her  some  o'  these  days,  knowing 
her  husband's  folks  as  well  as  I  used  to,  an' 
visitin'  of  'em  when  I  was  a  girl."  But 
Miss  Pickett  made  110  answer. 

"I  expect  it  was  all  for  the  best,  that 
woman's  comin',"  suggested  Mrs.  Flagg 
again  hopefully.  "She  looked  like  a  will 
ing  person  who  would  take  right  hold.  I 
guess  Mis'  Beckett  knows  what  she 's  about, 
and  must  have  had  her  reasons.  Perhaps 
she  thought  she  'd  chance  it  for  a  couple  o' 
weeks  anyway,  after  the  lady  ?d  come  so  fur, 
an'  bein'  one  o'  her  own  denomination. 
Hayin'-time '11  be  here  before  we  know  it. 
1  think  myself,  generally  speakin',  't  is  just 
as  well  to  let  anybody  know  you  're  comin'." 

"Them  seemed  to  be  Mis'  Cap'n  Timms's 
views,"  said  Miss  Pickett  in  a  low  tone; 
but  the  stage  rattled  a  good  deal,  and  Mrs. 
Flagg  looked  up  inquiringly,  as  if  she  had 
not  heard. 


A  NEIGHBOR'S   LANDMARK. 

THE  timber-contractor  took  a  long  time 
to  fasten  his  horse  to  the  ring  in  the  corner 
of  the  shed;  but  at  last  he  looked  up  as  if 
it  were  a  matter  of  no  importance  to  him 
that  John  Packer  was  coming  across  the 
yard.  "Good-day,"  said  he;  "good-day, 
John."  And  John  responded  by  an  inex 
pressive  nod. 

"  I  was  goin'  right  by,  an'  I  thought  I  'd 
stop  an'  see  if  you  want  to  do  anything 
about  them  old  pines  o'  yourn." 

"I  don't  know 's  I  do,  Mr.  Ferris,"  said 
John  stiffly. 

"Well,  that  business  is  easy  finished," 
said  the  contractor,  with  a  careless  air  and 
a  slight  look  of  disappointment.  "Just  as 
you  say,  sir.  You  was  full  of  it  a  spell  ago, 
and  I  kind  o'  kep'  the  matter  in  mind.  It 
ain't  no  plot  o'  mine,  'cept  to  oblige  you. 
I  don't  want  to  move  my  riggin'  nowhere 
for  the  sake  o'  two  trees  —  one  tree,  you 
might  say ;  there  ain't  much  o'  anything  but 


A   NEIGHBORS   LANDMARK.  245 

fire-wood  in  the  sprangly  one.  I  shall  end 
up  over  011  the  Foss  lot  next  week,  an*  then 
I  'm  goiii'  right  up  country  quick 's  I  can, 
before  the  snow  begins  to  melt." 

John  Packer's  hands  were  both  plunged 
deep  into  his  side  pockets,  and  the  contrac 
tor  did  not  fail  to  see  that  he  was  moving 
his  fingers  nervously. 

"You  don't  want  'em  blowin'  down,  break- 
in'  all  to  pieces  right  on  to  your  grass-land. 
They  'd  spile  pretty  near  an  acre  fallin'  in 
some  o'  them  spring  gales.  Them  old  trees 
is  awful  brittle.  If  you  're  ever  calc'latin' 
to  sell  'em,  now 's  your  time ;  the  sprangly 
one 's  goin'  back  a'ready.  They  take  the 
goodness  all  out  o'  that  part  o'  your  field, 
anyway,"  said  Ferris,  casting  a  sly  glance 
as  he  spoke. 

"  I  don't  know  's  I  care ;  I  can  maintain 
them  two  trees,"  answered  Packer,  with 
spirit;  but  he  turned  and  looked  away,  not 
at  the  contractor. 

"Come,  I  mean  business.  I'll  tell  you 
what  I  '11  do:  if  you  want  to  trade,  I  '11  give 
you  seventy-five  dollars  for  them  two  trees, 
and  it 's  an  awful  price.  Buyin'  known 
trees  like  them 's  like  tradin'  for  a  tame 
calf ;  you  'd  let  your  forty-acre  piece  go 


246  A    NEIGHBOR'S   LANDMARK. 

without  no  fuss.  Don't  mind  what  folks 
say.  They  're  yourn,  John ;  or  ain't  they  ?  " 

"I'd  just  as  soon  be  rid  on  'em;  they've 
got  to  come  down  some  time,"  said  Packer, 
stung  by  this  bold  taunt.  "  I  ain't  goin'  to 
give  you  a  present  o'  half  their  value,  for 
all  o'  that." 

"You  can't  handle  'em  yourself,  nor 
nobody  else  about  here ;  there  ain't  nobody 
got  proper  riggin'  to  handle  them  butts  but 
me.  I  've  got  to  take  'em  down  for  ye  fur 's 
I  can  see,"  said  Ferris,  looking  sly,  and 
proceeding  swiftly  from  persuasion  to  final 
arrangements.  "It's  some  like  gittin'  a 
tooth  hauled;  you  kind  o'  dread  it,  but 
when  'tis  done  you  feel  like  a  man.  I  ain't 
said  nothin'  to  nobody,  but  I  hoped  you  'd 
do  what  you  was  a-mind  to  with  your  own 
property.  You  can't  afford  to  let  all  that 
money  rot  away;  folks  won't  thank  ye." 

"  What  you  goin'  to  give  for  'em?"  asked 
John  Packer  impatiently.  "Come,  I  can't 
talk  all  day." 

"I'm  a-goin'  to  give  you  seventy-five 
dollars  in  bank-bills,"  said  the  other  man, 
with  an  air  of  great  spirit. 

"I  ain't  a-goin'  to  take  it,  if  you  be," 
said  John,  turning  round,  and  taking  a 


A   NEIGHBOR'S   LANDMARK.  247 

hasty  step  or  two  toward  the  house.  As  he 
turned  he  saw  the  anxious  faces  of  two  wo 
men  at  one  of  the  kitchen  windows,  and  the 
blood  flew  to  his  pinched  face. 

"Here,  come  back  here  and  talk  man- 
fashion  !  "  shouted  the  timber-dealer.  "You 
couldn't  make  no  more  fuss  if  I  come  to 
seize  your  farm.  I  '11  make  it  eighty,  an' 
I'll  tell  you  jest  one  thing  more:  if  you're 
holdin'  out,  thinkin'  I  '11  give  you  more,  you 
can  hold  out  till  doomsday." 

"When '11  you  be  over?"  said  the  farmer 
abruptly;  his  hands  were  clenched  now  in 
his  pockets.  The  two  men  stood  a  little 
way  apart,  facing  eastward,  and  away  from 
the  house.  The  long,  wintry  fields  before 
them  sloped  down  to  a  wide  stretch  of 
marshes  covered  with  ice,  and  dotted  here 
and  there  with  an  abandoned  haycock.  Be 
yond  was  the  gray  sea  less  than  a  mile  away ; 
the  far  horizon  was  like  an  edge  of  steel. 
There  was  a  small  fishing-boat  standing  in 
toward  the  shore,  and  far  off  were  two  or 
three  coasters. 

"Looks  cold,  don't  it?  "  said  the  contrac 
tor.  "I  '11  be  over  middle  o'  the  week  some 
time,  Mr.  Packer."  He  unfastened  his 
horse,  while  John  Packer  went  to  the  un- 


248  A    NEIGHBOR'S   LANDMARK. 

sheltered  wood-pile  and  began  to  chop  hard 
at  some  sour,  heavy-looking  pieces  of  red- 
oak  wood.  He  stole  a  look  at  the  window, 
but  the  two  troubled  faces  had  disappeared. 

II. 

Later  that  afternoon  John  Packer  came 
in  from  the  barn;  he  had  lingered  out  of 
doors  in  the  cold  as  long  as  there  was  any 
excuse  for  so  doing,  and  had  fed  the  cattle 
early,  and  cleared  up  and  laid  into  a  neat 
pile  some  fencing  materials  and  pieces  of 
old  boards  that  had  been  lying  in  the  shed 
in  great  confusion  since  before  the  coming 
of  snow.  It  was  a  dusty,  splintery  heap, 
half  worthless,  and  he  had  thrown  some  of 
the  broken  fence-boards  out  to  the  wood-pile, 
and  then  had  stopped  to  break  them  up  for 
kindlings  and  to  bring  them  into  the  back 
kitchen  of  the  house,  hoping,  yet  fearing  at 
every  turn,  to  hear  the  sound  of  his  wife's 
voice.  Sometimes  the  women  had  to  bring 
in  fire-wood  themselves,  but  to-night  he 
filled  the  great  wood-box  just  outside  the 
kitchen  door,  piling  it  high  with  green  beech 
and  maple,  with  plenty  of  dry  birch  and 
pine,  taking  pains  to  select  the  best  and 
straightest  sticks,  even  if  he  burrowed  deep 


A   NEIGHBOR'S   LANDMARK.  249 

into  the  wood-pile.  He  brought  the  bushel 
basketful  of  kindlings  last,  and  set  it  down 
with  a  cheerful  grunt,  having  worked  him 
self  into  good  humor  again;  and  as  he 
opened  the  kitchen  door,  and  went  to  hang 
his  great  blue  mittens  behind  the  stove,  he 
wore  a  self-satisfied  and  pacificatory  smile. 

"There,  I  don't  want  to  hear  no  more 
about  the  wood-box  bein'  empty.  We're 
goin'  to  have  a  cold  night ;  the  air 's  full  of 
snow,  but  't  won't  fall,  not  till  it  moderates." 

The  women  glanced  at  him  with  a  sense 
of  relief.  They  had  looked  forward  to  his 
entrance  in  a  not  unfamiliar  mood  of  surly 
silence.  Every  time  he  had  thumped  down 
a  great  armful  of  wood,  it  had  startled  them 
afresh,  and  their  timid  protest  and  sense  of 
apprehension  had  increased  until  they  were 
pale  and  miserable ;  the  younger  woman  had 
been  crying. 

"  Come,  mother,  what  you  goin'  to  get  me 
for  supper?"  said  the  master  of  the  house. 
" 1  'm  goin'  over  to  the  Centre  to  the  selec'- 
men's  office  to-night.  They  're  goin'  to  have 
a  hearin'  about  that  new  piece  o'  road  over 
in  the  Dexter  neighborhood." 

The  mother  and  daughter  looked  at  each 
other  with  relief  and  shame;  perhaps  they 


250  A   NEIGHBORS  LANDMARK. 

had  mistaken  the  timber-contractor's  errand, 
after  all,  though  their  imagination  had  fol 
lowed  truthfully  every  step  of  a  bitter  bar 
gain,  from  the  windows. 

"Poor  father!  "  said  his  wife,  half  uncon 
sciously.  "Yes;  I'll  get  you  your  supper 
quick 's  I  can.  I  forgot  about  to-night. 
You  '11  want  somethin'  warm  before  you 
ride  'way  over  to  the  Centre,  certain;  "  and 
she  began  to  bustle  about,  and  to  bring 
things  out  of  the  pantry.  She  and  John 
Packer  had  really  loved  each  other  when 
they  were  young,  and  although  he  had  done 
everything  he  could  since  then  that  might 
have  made  her  forget,  she  always  remem 
bered  instead;  she  was  always  ready  to 
blame  herself,  and  to  find  excuse  for  him. 
"Do  put  on  your  big  fur  coat,  won't  you, 
John  ?  "  she  begged  eagerly. 

"I  ain't  gone  yet,"  said  John,  looking 
again  at  his  daughter,  who  did  not  look  at 
him.  It  was  not  quite  dark,  and  she  was 
bending  over  her  sewing,  close  to  the  win 
dow.  The  momentary  gleam  of  hope  had 
faded  in  her  heart ;  her  father  was  too  plea 
sant  :  she  hated  him  for  the  petty  deceit. 

"What  are  you  about  there,  Lizzie?"  he 
asked  gayly.  "Why  don't  you  wait  till  you 


A   NEIGHBOR'S   LANDMARK.  251 

have  a  light?  Get  one  for  your  mother: 
she  can't  see  over  there  by  the  table." 

Lizzie  Packer's  ready  ears  caught  a  pro 
voking  tone  in  her  father's  voice,  but  she 
dropped  her  sewing,  and  went  to  get  the 
hand-lamp  from  the  high  mantelpiece. 
uHave  you  got  a  match  in  your  pocket? 
You  know  we  're  all  out ;  I  found  the  last 
this  mornin'  in  the  best  room."  She  stood 
close  beside  him  while  he  took  a  match  from 
his  waistcoat  pocket  and  gave  it  to  her. 

"I  won't  have  you  leavin'  matches  layiii' 
all  about  the  house,"  he  commanded; 
"mice '11  get  at  'em,  and  set  us  afire.  You 
can  make  up  some  lamplighters  out  of  old 
letters  and  things ;  there  's  a  lot  o'  stuff  that 
might  be  used  up.  Seems  to  me  lamplight 
ers  is  gone  out  o'  fashion;  they  come  in 
very  handy." 

Lizzie  did  not  answer,  which  was  a  dis 
appointment. 

"Here,  you  take  these  I've  got  in  my 
pocket,  and  that  '11  remind  me  to  buy  some 
at  the  store,"  he  ended.  But  Lizzie  did 
not  come  to  take  them,  and  when  she  had 
waited  a  moment,  and  turned  up  the  lamp 
carefully,  she  put  it  on  the  table  by  her 
mother,  and  went  out  of  the  room.  The 


252  A   NEIGHBOR'S   L AND M ARK. 

father  and  mother  heard  her  going  up 
stairs. 

"I  do  hope  she  won't  stay  up  there  in  the 
cold,"  said  Mrs.  Packer  in  an  outburst  of 
anxiety. 

"What's  she  sulkin'  about  now?"  de 
manded  the  father,  tipping  his  chair  down 
emphatically  on  all  four  legs.  The  timid 
woman  mustered  all  her  bravery. 

"  Why,  when  we  saw  Mr.  Ferris  out  there 
talkin'  with  you,  we  were  frightened  for 
fear  he  was  tryin'  to  persuade  you  about  the 
big  pines.  Poor  Lizzie  got  all  worked  up ; 
she  took  on  and  cried  like  a  baby  when  we 
saw  him  go  off  chucklin'  and  you  stayed  out 
so  long.  She  can't  bear  the  thought  o' 
touchin'  'em.  And  then  when  you  come  in 
and  spoke  about  the  selec'men,  we  guessed 
we  was  all  wrong.  Perhaps  Lizzie  feels 
bad  about  that  now.  I  own  I  had  hard 
feelin's  toward  you  myself,  John."  She 
came  toward  him  with  her  mixing-spoon  in 
her  hand;  her  face  was  lovely  and  hopeful. 
"You  see,  they've  been  such  landmarks, 
John,"  she  said,  "and  our  Lizzie 's  got 
more  feelin'  about  'em  than  anybody.  She 
was  always  playiii'  around  'em  when  she 
was  little;  and  now  there's  so  much  talk 


A   NEIGHBOR'S  LANDMARK.  253 

about  the  fishiii'  folks  countin'  on  'em  to 
get  in  by  the  short  channel  in  bad  weather, 
and  she  don't  want  you  blamed." 

"You'd  ought  to  set  her  to  work,  and 
learnt  her  head  to  save  her  heels,"  said 
John  Packer,  grumbling ;  and  the  pale  little 
woman  gave  a  heavy  sigh,  and  went  back 
to  her  work  again.  "That's  why  she  ain't 
no  good  now  —  playin'  out  all  the  time 
when  other  girls  was  made  to  work.  Broke 
you  all  down,  savin'  her,"  he  ended  in  an 
aggrieved  tone. 

"John,  't ain't  true,  is  it?"  She  faced 
him  again  in  a  way  that  made  him  quail; 
his  wife  was  never  disrespectful,  but  she 
sometimes  faced  every  danger  to  save  him 
from  his  own  foolishness.  "Don't  you  go 
and  do  a  thing  to  make  everybody  hate  you. 
You  know  what  it  says  in  the  Bible  about 
movin'  a  landmark.  You  '11  get  your  rights ; 
't  is  just  as  much  your  right  to  let  the  trees 
stand,  and  please  folks." 

"Come,  come,  Mary  Hannah!"  said 
John,  a  little  moved  in  spite  of  himself. 
"Don't  work  yourself  up  so.  I  ain't  told 
you  I  was  goin'  to  cut  'em,  have  I  ?  But  if 
I  ever  do,  't  is  because  I  've  been  twitted 
into  it,  an'  told  they  were  everybody's  trees 
but  mine." 


254  A   NEIGHBORS   LANDMARK. 

He  pleased  himself  at  the  moment  by 
thinking  that  he  could  take  back  his  promise 
to  Ferris,  even  if  it  cost  five  dollars  to  do 
it.  Why  could  n't  people  leave  a  man  alone  ? 
It  was  the  women's  faces  at  the  window  that 
had  decided  his  angry  mind,  but  now  they 
thought  it  all  his  fault.  Ferris  would  say, 
"  So  your  women  folks  persuaded  you  out  of 
it."  It  would  be  110  harm  to  give  Ferris  a 
lesson :  he  had  used  a  man's  being  excited 
and  worked  upon  by  interfering  neighbors 
to  drive  a  smart  bargain.  The  trees  were 
worth  fifty  dollars  apiece,  if  they  were  worth 
a  cent.  John  Packer  transferred  his  ag 
grieved  thoughts  from  his  family  to  Ferris 
himself.  Ferris  had  driven  a  great  many 
sharp  bargains;  he  had  plenty  of  capital 
behind  him,  and  had  taken  advantage  of 
the  hard  times,  and  of  more  than  one  man's 
distress,  to  buy  woodland  at  far  less  than 
its  value.  More  than  that,  he  always 
stripped  land  to  the  bare  skin;  if  the  very 
huckleberry  bushes  and  ferns  had  been  worth 
anything  to  him,  he  would  have  taken  those, 
insisting  upon  all  or  nothing,  and,  regard 
less  of  the  rights  of  forestry,  he  left  nothing 
to  grow ;  no  sapling-oak  or  pine  stood  where 
his  hand  had  been.  The  pieces  of  young 


A   NEIGHBORS   LANDMARK.  255 

growing  woodland  that  might  have  made 
their  owners  rich  at  some  later  day  were 
sacrificed  to  his  greed  of  gain.  You  had  to 
give  him  half  your  trees  to  make  him  give 
half  price  for  the  rest.  Some  men  yielded 
to  him  out  of  ignorance,  or  avarice  for  im 
mediate  gains,  and  others  out  of  bitter  ne 
cessity.  Once  or  twice  he  had  even  brought 
men  to  their  knees  and  gained  his  point  by 
involving  them  in  money  difficulties,  through 
buying  up  their  mortgages  and  notes.  He 
could  sell  all  the  wood  and  timber  he  could 
buy,  and  buy  so  cheap,  to  larger  dealers; 
and  a  certain  builder  having  given  him  an. 
order  for  some  unusually  wide  and  clear 
pine  at  a  large  price,  his  withering  eye  had 
been  directed  toward  the  landmark  trees  on 
John  Packer's  farm. 

On  the  road  home  from  the  Packer  farm 
that  winter  afternoon  Mr.  Ferris's  sleigh- 
bells  sounded  lonely,  and  nobody  was  met 
or  overtaken  to  whom  he  could  brag  of  his 
success.  Now  and  then  he  looked  back  with 
joy  to  the  hill  behind  the  Packer  house, 
where  the  assailed  pine-trees  still  stood  to 
gether,  superb  survivors  of  an  earlier  growth. 
The  snow  was  white  about  them  now,  but 


256  A   NEIGHBOR'S  LANDMARK. 

in  summer  they  stood  near  the  road  at  the 
top  of  a  broad  field  which  had  been  won 
from  wild  land  by  generation  after  genera 
tion  of  the  Packers.  Whatever  man's  hands 
have  handled,  and  his  thoughts  have  cen 
tred  in,  gives  something  back  to  man,  and 
becomes  charged  with  his  transferred  life, 
and  brought  into  relationship.  The  great 
pines  could  remember  all  the  Packers,  if 
they  could  remember  anything;  they  were 
like  some  huge  archaic  creatures  whose 
thoughts  were  slow  and  dim.  So  many  anx 
ious  eyes  had  sought  these  trees  from  the 
sea,  so  many  wanderers  by  land  had  gladly 
welcomed  the  far  sight  of  them  in  coming 
back  to  the  old  town,  it  must  have  been  that 
the  great  live  things  felt  their  responsibility 
as  landmarks  and  sentinels.  How  could  any 
fisherman  find  the  deep-sea  fishing-grounds 
for  cod  and  haddock  without  bringing  them 
into  range  with  a  certain  blue  hill  far  in 
land,  or  with  the  steeple  of  the  old  church 
on  the  Wilton  road  ?  How  could  a  hurry 
ing  boat  find  the  short  way  into  harbor  be 
fore  a  gale  without  sighting  the  big  trees 
from  point  to  point  among  the  rocky  shal 
lows?  It  was  a  dangerous  bit  of  coast  in 
every  way,  and  every  fisherman  and  plea- 


A  NEIGHBOR'S   LANDMARK.  257 

sure -boatman  knew  the  pines  on  Packer's 
Hill.  As  for  the  Packers  themselves,  the 
first  great  adventure  for  a  child  was  to  climb 
alone  to  the  great  pines,  and  to  see  an  as 
tonishing  world  from  beneath  their  shadow ; 
and  as  the  men  and  women  of  the  family 
grew  old,  they  sometimes  made  an  effort  to 
climb  the  hill  once  more  in  summer  weather, 
to  sit  in  the  shelter  of  the  trees,  where  the 
breeze  was  cool,  and  to  think  of  what  had 
passed,  and  to  touch  the  rough  bark  with 
affectionate  hands.  The  boys  went  there 
when  they  came  home  from  voyages  at  sea ; 
the  girls  went  there  with  their  lovers.  The 
trees  were  like  friends,  and  whether  you 
looked  seaward,  being  in  an  inland  country, 
or  whether  you  looked  shoreward,  being  on 
the  sea,  there  they  stood  and  grew  in  their 
places,  while  a  worldful  of  people  lived  and 
died,  and  again  and  again  new  worldfuls 
were  born  and  passed  away,  and  still  these 
landmark  pines  lived  their  long  lives,  and 
were  green  and  vigorous  yet. 

m. 

There  was  a  fishing-boat  coming  into  the 
neighboring  cove,  as  has  already  been  said, 
while  Ferris  and  John  Packer  stood  together 


258  A   NEIGHBOR'S  LANDMARK. 

talking  in  the  yard.  In  this  fishing-boat 
were  two  other  men,  younger  and  lighter- 
hearted,  if  it  were  only  for  the  reason  that 
neither  of  them  had  such  a  store  of  petty  ill 
deeds  and  uukindnesses  to  remember  in  dark 
moments.  They  were  in  an  old  dory,  and 
there  was  much  ice  clinging  to  her,  inside 
and  out,  as  if  the  fishers  had  been  out  for 
many  hours.  There  were  only  a  few  cod 
lying  around  in  the  bottom,  already  stiffened 
in  the  icy  air.  The  wind  was  light,  and 
one  of  the  men  was  rowing  with  short,  jerky 
strokes,  to  help  the  sail,  while  the  other  held 
the  sheet  and  steered  with  a  spare  oar  that 
had  lost  most  of  its  blade.  The  wind  came 
in  flaws,  chilling,  and  mischievous  in  its 
freaks.  "I  ain't  goin'  out  any  more  this 
year,"  said  the  younger  man,  who  rowed, 
giving  a  great  shudder.  "I  ain't  goin'  to 
perish  myself  for  a  pinch  o'  fish  like  this  " 
—  pushing  them  with  his  heavy  boot. 
"Generally  it's  some  warmer  than  we  are 
gittin'  it  now,  'way  into  January.  I  've 
got  a  good  chance  to  go  into  Otis's  shoe- 
shop;  Bill  Otis  was  tellin'  me  he  didn't 
know  but  he  should  go  out  West  to  see  his 
uncle's  folks,  —  he  done  well  this  last  sea 
son,  lobsterin',  —  an'  I  can  have  his  bench 


A    NEIGHBORS   LANDMARK.  259 

if  I  want  it.  I  do'  know  but  I  may  make 
up  some  lobster-pots  myself,  evenin's  an' 
odd  times,  and  take  to  lobsteriii'  another 
season.  I  know  a  few  good  places  that  Bill 
Otis  ain't  struck;  and  then  the  scarcer  lob 
sters  git  to  be,  the  more  you  git  for  'em,  so 
now  a  poor  ketch  's  'most  better  'n  a  good 
one." 

"Le'  me  take  the  oars,"  said  Joe  Banks, 
without  attempting  a  reply  to  such  deep 
economical  wisdom. 

"You  hold  that  sheet  light,"  grumbled 
the  other  man,  "or  these  gusts '11  have  us 
over.  An'  don't  let  that  old  oar  o'  yourn 
range  about  so.  I  can't  git  no  hold  o'  the 
water."  The  boat  lifted  suddenly  on  a  wave 
and  sank  again  in  the  trough,  the  sail 
flapped,  and  a  great  cold  splash  of  salt 
water  came  aboard,  floating  the  fish  to  the 
stern,  against  Banks's  feet.  Chauncey, 
grumbling  heartily,  began  to  bail  with  a 
square-built  wooden  scoop  for  which  he 
reached  far  behind  him  in  the  bow. 

"They  say  the  sea  holds  its  heat  longer 
than  the  land,  but  I  guess  summer  's  about 
over  out  here."  He  shivered  again  as  he 
spoke.  "Come,  le'  's  say  this  is  the  last 
trip,  Joe." 


260  A   NEIGHBOR'S   LANDMARK. 

Joe  looked  up  at  the  sky,  quite  uncon 
cerned.  "We  may  have  it  warmer  after 
we  git  more  snow,"  he  said.  "I'd  like  to 
keep  on  myself  until  after  the  first  o'  the 
year,  same's  usual.  I've  got  my  reasons," 
he  added.  "  But  don't  you  go  out  no  more, 
Chauncey." 

"What  you  goin'  to  do  about  them  trees 
o'  Packer's? "  asked  Chauncey  suddenly, 
and  not  without  effort.  The  question  had 
been  on  his  mind  all  the  afternoon.  "Old 
Ferris  has  laid  a  bet  that  he  '11  git  'em  any 
way.  I  signed  the  paper  they  've  got  down 
to  Fox'l  Berry's  store  to  the  Cove.  A 
number  has  signed  it,  but  I  should  n't  want 
to  be  the  one  to  carry  it  up  to  Packer. 
They  all  want  your  name,  but  they  've  got 
some  feelin'  about  how  you  're  situated. 
Some  o'  the  boys  made  me  promise  to  speak 
to  you,  bein'  's  we  're  keepin'  together." 

"You  can  tell  'em  I'll  sign  it,"  said  Joe 
Banks,  flushing  a  warm,  bright  color  under 
his  sea-chilled  skin.  "I  don't  know  what 
set  him  out  to  be  so  poor -behaved.  He  's  a 
quick-tempered  man,  Packer  is,  but  quick 
over.  I  never  knew  him  to  keep  no  such 
a  black  temper  as  this." 

"They  always  say  that  you  can't  drive 


A   NEIGHBORS   LANDMARK.  261 

a  Packer,"  said  Chauncey,  tugging  against 
the  uneven  waves.  "His  mother  came  o' 
that  old  fightin'  stock  up  to  Bolton ;  't  was 
a  different  streak  from  his  father's  folks  — 
they  was  different-hearted  an'  all  pleasant. 
Ferris  has  done  the  whole  mean  business. 
John  Packer  'd  be  madder  '11  he  is  now  if  he 
knowed  how  Ferris  is  makin'  a  tool  of  him. 
He  got  a  little  too  much  aboard  long  ago  's 
Thanksgivin'  Day,  and  bragged  to  me  an' 
another  fellow  when  he  was  balmy  how  he  'd 
rile  up  Packer  into  sellin'  them  pines,  and 
then  he'd  double  his  money  on  'em  up  to 
Boston ;  he  said  there  wa'n't  no  such  a  tim 
ber  pine  as  that  big  one  left  in  the  State 
that  he  knows  on.  Why,  'tis  'most  five 
foot  through  high  's  I  can  reach." 

Chauncey  stopped  rowing  a  minute,  and 
held  the  oars  with  one  hand  while  he  looked 
over  his  shoulder.  "I  should  miss  them  old 
trees,"  he  said;  "they  always  make  me 
think  of  a  married  couple.  They  ain't  no 
common  growth,  be  they,  Joe?  Everybody 
knows  'em.  I  bet  you  if  anything  happened 
to  one  on  'em  t'  other  would  go  an'  die. 
They  say  ellums  has  mates,  an'  all  them 
big  trees." 

Joe  Banks  had  been  looking  at  the  pines 


262  A   NEIGHBOR'S   LANDMARK. 

all  the  way  in ;  he  had  steered  by  them  from 
point  to  point.  Now  he  saw  them  just  over 
Fish  Kock,  where  the  surf  was  whitening, 
and  over  the  group  of  fish-houses,  and  began 
to  steer  straight  inshore.  The  sea  was  less 
rough  now,  and  after  getting  well  into  the 
shelter  of  the  land  he  drew  in  his  oar. 
Chauncey  could  pull  the  rest  of  the  way 
without  it.  A  sudden  change  in  the  wind 
filled  the  three-cornered  sail,  and  they  moved 
faster. 

"She'll  make  it  now,  herself,  if  you'll 
just  keep  her  straight,  Chauncey;  no, 
't  wa'n't  nothin'  but  a  flaw,  was  it  ?  Guess 
I  'd  better  help  ye ; "  and  he  leaned  on  the 
oar  once  more,  and  took  a  steady  sight  of 
the  familiar  harbor  marks. 

"We  're  right  over  one  o'  my  best  lobster 
rocks,"  said  Chauncey,  looking  warm 
blooded  and  cheerful  again.  "I  'm  satisfied 
not  to  be  no  further  out;  it's  beginnin'  to 
snow;  see  them  big  flakes  a-comin'?  I'll 
tell  the  boys  about  your  signin'  the  paper; 
I  do'  know  's  you  'd  better  resk  it,  either." 

"Why  not?"  said  Joe  Banks  hastily. 
"I  suppose  you  refer  to  me  an'  Lizzie 
Packer;  but  she  wouldn't  think  110  more  o' 
me  for  leavin'  my  name  off  a  proper  neigh- 


A   NEIGHBOR'S   LANDMARK.  263 

borhood  paper,  nor  her  father,  neither. 
You  git  them  two  pines  let  alone,  and  I  '11 
take  care  o'  Lizzie.  I  've  got  all  the  other 
boats  and  men  to  think  of  besides  me,  an' 
I  Ve  got  some  pride  anyway.  I  ain't  goin' 
to  have  Bolton  folks  an'  all  on  'em  down  to 
the  Centre  twittin'  us,  nor  twittin'  Packer ; 
he  '11  turn  sour  toward  everybody  the  minute 
he  does  it.  I  know  Packer ;  he 's  rough  and 
ugly,  but  he  ain't  the  worst  man  in  town  by 
a  good  sight.  Anybody  'd  be  all  worked 
up  to  go  through  so  much  talk,  and  I  'm 
kind  o'  'fraid  this  minute  his  word  's  passed 
to  Ferris  to  have  them  trees  down.  But 
you  show  him  the  petition ;  't  will  be  kind 
of  formal,  and  if  that  don't  do  no  good,  I 
do'  know  what  will.  There  you  git  the  sail 
in  while  I  hold  her  stiddy,  Chauncey." 

IV. 

After  a  day  or  two  of  snow  that  turned 
to  rain,  and  was  followed  by  warmer  wea 
ther,  there  came  one  of  the  respites  which 
keep  up  New  England  hearts  in  December. 
The  short,  dark  days  seemed  shorter  and 
darker  than  usual  that  year,  but  one  morn 
ing  the  sky  had  a  look  of  Indian  summer, 
the  wind  was  in  the  south,  and  the  cocks 


264  A   NEIGHBOR'S   LANDMARK. 

and  hens  of  the  Packer  farm  came  boldly 
out  into  the  sunshine,  to  crow  and  cackle 
before  the  barn.  It  was  Friday  morning, 
and  the  next  day  was  the  day  before  Christ 
mas. 

John  Packer  was  always  good-tempered 
when  the  wind  was  in  the  south.  The  milder 
air,  which  relaxed  too  much  the  disposi 
tions  of  less  energetic  men,  and  made  them 
depressed  and  worthless,  only  softened  and 
tempered  him  into  reasonableness.  As  he 
and  his  wife  and  daughter  sat  at  breakfast, 
after  he  had  returned  from  feeding  the  cat 
tle  and  horses,  he  wore  a  pleasant  look,  and 
finally  leaned  back  and  said  the  warm  wea 
ther  made  him  feel  boyish,  and  he  believed 
that  he  would  take  the  boat  and  go  out  fish 
ing. 

"I  can  haul  her  out  and  fix  her  up  for 
winter  when  I  git  ashore,"  he  explained. 
"I've  been  distressed  to  think  it  wa'n't 
done  before.  I  expect  she  's  got  some  little 
ice  in  her  now,  there  where  she  lays  just 
under  the  edge  of  Joe  Banks's  fish-house. 
I  spoke  to  Joe,  but  he  said  she  'd  do  till  I 
could  git  down.  No;  I'll  turn  her  over, 
and  make  her  snug  for  winter,  and  git  a 
small  boat  o'  Joe.  I  ain't  goin'  out  a  great 


A   NEIGHBOR'S  LANDMARK.  265 

ways :  just  so  's  I  can  git  a  cod  or  two.  I 
always  begin  to  think  of  a  piece  o'  new  fish 
quick  's  these  mild  days  come ;  feels  like  the 
Janooary  thaw." 

"  'T  would  be  a  good  day  for  you  to  ride 
over  to  Bolton,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Packer. 
"But  I'd  like  to  go  with  you  when  you  go 
there,  an'  I  've  got  business  here  to-day. 
I  Ve  put  the  kettle  on  some  time  ago  to  do 
a  little  color  in'.  We  can  go  to  Bolton 
some  day  next  week." 

"I've  got  to  be  here  next  week,"  said 
Packer  ostentatiously;  but  at  this  moment 
his  heart  for  the  first  time  completely  failed 
him  about  the  agreement  with  Ferris.  The 
south  wind  had  blown  round  the  vane  of  his 
determination.  He  forgot  his  wife  and 
daughter,  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and 
quite  unknown  to  himself  began  to  hang  his 
head.  The  great  trees  were  not  so  far  from 
the  house  that  he  had  not  noticed  the  sound 
of  the  southerly  breeze  in  their  branches  as 
lie  came  across  the  yard.  He  knew  it  as 
well  as  he  knew  the  rote  of  the  beaches  and 
ledges  on  that  stretch  of  shore.  He  was 
meaning,  at  any  rate,  to  think  it  over  while 
he  was  out  fishing,  where  nobody  could 
bother  him.  He  was  n't  going  to  be  hin- 


266  A   NEIGHBOR'S   LANDMARK. 

dered  by  a  pack  of  folks  from  doing  what 
he  liked  with  his  own ;  but  neither  was  old 
Ferris  going  to  say  what  he  had  better  do 
with  his  own  trees. 

"You  put  me  up  a  bite  o'  somethin' 
hearty,  mother,"  he  made  haste  to  say.  "I 
sha'n't  git  in  till  along  in  the  afternoon." 

"Ain't  you  feelin'  all  right,  father?" 
asked  Lizzie,  looking  at  him  curiously. 

"I  be,"  said  John  Packer,  growing  stern 
again  for  the  moment.  "I  feel  like  a  day 
out  fishin'.  I  hope  Joe  won't  git  the  start 
o'  me.  You  seen  his  small  boat  go  out?  " 
He  looked  up  at  his  daughter,  and  smiled 
in  a  friendly  way,  and  went  on  with  his 
breakfast.  It  was  evidently  one  of  his  plea 
sant  days ;  he  never  had  made  such  a  frank 
acknowledgment  of  the  lovers'  rights,  but 
he  had  always  liked  Joe  Banks.  Lizzie's 
cheeks  glowed ;  she  gave  her  mother  a  happy 
glance  of  satisfaction,  and  looked  as  bright 
as  a  rose.  The  hard- worked  little  woman 
smiled  back  in  sympathy.  There  was  a 
piece  of  her  best  loaf  cake  in  the  round 
wooden  luncheon-box  that  day,  and  every 
thing  else  that  she  thought  her  man  would 
like  and  that  his  box  would  hold,  but  it 
seemed  meagre  to  her  generous  heart  even 


A   NEIGHBOR'S  LANDMARK  267 

then.  The  two  women  affectionately  watched 
him  away  down  the  field-path  that  led  to 
the  cove  where  the  fish-houses  were. 

All  the  Wilton  farmers  near  the  sea  took 
a  turn  now  and  then  at  fishing.  They 
owned  boats  together  sometimes,  but  John 
Packer  had  always  kept  a  good  boat  of  his 
own.  To-day  he  had  no  real  desire  to  find 
a  companion  or  to  call  for  help  to  launch 
his  craft,  but  finding  that  Joe  Banks  was 
busy  in  his  fish-house,  he  went  in  to  bor 
row  the  light  dory  and  a  pair  of  oars.  Joe 
seemed  singularly  unfriendly  in  his  manner, 
a  little  cold  and  strange,  and  went  on  with 
his  work  without  looking  up.  Mr.  Packer 
made  a  great  effort  to  be  pleasant ;  the  south 
wind  gave  him  even  a  sense  of  guilt. 

"Don't  you  want  to  come,  Joe?"  he 
said,  according  to  'longshore  etiquette ;  but 
Joe  shook  his  head,  and  showed  no  interest 
whatever.  It  seemed  then  as  if  it  would 
be  such  a  good  chance  to  talk  over  the  tree 
business  with  Joe,  and  to  make  him  under 
stand  there  had  been  some  reason  in  it;  but 
John  Packer  could  mind  his  own  business 
as  well  as  any  man,  and  so  he  picked  his 
way  over  the  slippery  stones,  pushed  off  the 
dory,  stepped  in,  and  was  presently  well 


268  A   NEIGHBOR'S   LANDMARK. 

outside  on  his  way  to  Fish  Rock.  He  had 
forgotten  to  look  for  any  bait  until  Joe  had 
pushed  a  measure  of  clams  along  the  bench ; 
he  remembered  it  now  as  he  baited  his  cod- 
lines,  sitting  in  the  swaying  and  lifting 
boat,  a  mile  or  two  out  from  shore.  He 
had  but  poor  luck;  the  cold  had  driven  the 
fish  into  deeper  water,  and  presently  he 
took  the  oars  to  go  farther  out,  and  looking 
at  the  land  for  the  first  time  with  a  con 
sciousness  of  seeing  it,  he  sighted  his  range, 
and  turned  the  boat's  head.  He  was  still 
so  near  land  that  beyond  the  marshes,  which 
looked  narrow  from  the  sea,  he  could  see 
his  own  farm  and  his  neighbors'  farms  on 
the  hill  that  sloped  gently  down ;  the  north 
ern  point  of  higher  land  that  sheltered  the 
cove  and  the  fish-houses  also  kept  the  fury 
of  the  sea  winds  from  these  farms,  which 
faced  the  east  and  south.  The  main  road 
came  along  the  high  ridge  at  their  upper 
edge,  and  a  lane  turned  off  down  to  the 
cove;  you  could  see  this  road  for  three  or 
four  miles  when  you  were  as  far  out  at  sea. 
The  whole  piece  of  country  most  familiar  to 
John  Packer  lay  there  spread  out  before 
him  in  the  morning  sunshine.  The  house 
and  barn  and  corn -house  looked  like  chil- 


A   NEIGHBOR'S  LANDMARK.  269 

dreii's  playthings;  he  made  a  vow  that  he 
would  get  out  the  lumber  that  winter  for  a 
wood-shed;  he  needed  another  building,  and 
his  wood-pile  ought  to  be  under  cover.  His 
wife  had  always  begged  him  to  build  a 
shed;  it  was  hard  for  a  woman  to  manage 
with  wet  wood  in  stormy  weather ;  often  he 
was  away,  and  they  never  kept  a  boy  or 
man  to  help  with  farm-work  except  in  sum 
mer.  "Joe  Banks  was  terribly  surly  about 
something,"  said  Mr.  Packer  to  himself. 
But  Joe  wanted  Lizzie.  When  they  were 
married  he  meant  to  put  an  addition  to  the 
farther  side  of  the  house,  and  to  give  Joe 
a  chance  to  come  right  there.  Lizzie's  mo 
ther  was  liable  to  be  ailing,  and  needed  her 
at  hand.  That  eighty  dollars  would  come 
in  handy  these  hard  times. 

John  Packer  liked  to  be  cross  and  auto 
cratic,  and  to  oppose  people ;  but  there  was 
hidden  somewhere  in  his  heart  a  warm  spot 
of  affectionateness  and  desire  for  approval. 
When  he  had  quarreled  for  a  certain  time, 
he  turned  square  about  on  this  instinct  as 
on  a  pivot.  The  self-love  that  made  him 
wish  to  rule  ended  in  making  him  wish  to 
please;  he  could  not  very  well  bear  being 
disliked.  The  bully  is  always  a  coward, 


270  A   NEIGHBOR'S   LANDMARK. 

but  there  was  a  good  sound  spot  of  right- 
mindedness,  after  all,  in  John  Packer's 
gnarly  disposition. 

As  the  thought  of  the  price  of  his  trees 
flitted  through  John  Packer's  mind,  it  made 
him  ashamed  instead  of  pleasing  him.  He 
rowed  harder  for  some  distance,  and  then 
stopped  to  loosen  the  comforter  about  his 
neck.  He  looked  back  at  the  two  pines 
where  they  stood  black  and  solemn  on  the 
distant  ridge  against  the  sky.  From  this 
point  of  view  they  seemed  to  have  taken  a 
step  nearer  each  other,  as  if  each  held  the 
other  fast  with  its  branches  in  a  desperate 
alliance.  The  bare,  strong  stem  of  one,  the 
drooping  boughs  of  the  other,  were  indis 
tinguishable,  but  the  trees  had  a  look  as 
if  they  were  in  trouble.  Something  made 
John  Packer  feel  sick  and  dizzy,  and  blurred 
his  eyes  so  that  he  could  not  see  them  plain ; 
the  wind  had  weakened  his  eyes,  and  he 
rubbed  them  with  his  rough  sleeve.  A 
horror  crept  over  him  before  he  understood 
the  reason,  but  in  another  moment  his  brain 
knew  what  his  eyes  had  read.  Along  the 
ridge  road  came  something  that  trailed  long 
and  black  like  a  funeral,  and  he  sprang  to 
his  feet  in  the  dory,  and  lost  his  footing, 


A    NEIGHBOR'S   LANDMARK.  271 

then  caught  at  the  gunwale,  and  sat  down 
again  in  despair.  It  was  like  the  panic  of 
a  madman,  and  he  cursed  and  swore  at  old 
Ferris  for  his  sins,  with  nothing  to  hear 
him  but  the  busy  waves  that  glistened  be 
tween  him  and  the  shore.  Ferris  had  stolen 
his  chance;  he  was  coming  along  with  his 
rigging  as  fast  as  he  could,  with  his  quick 
French  wood-choppers,  and  their  sharp  saws 
and  stubborn  wedges  to  cant  the  trunks; 
already  he  was  not  far  from  the  farm.  Old 
Ferris  was  going  to  set  up  his  yellow  saw 
dust-mill  there  —  that  was  the  plan ;  the 
great  trunks  were  too  heavy  to  handle  or 
haul  any  distance  with  any  trucks  or  sleds 
that  were  used  nowadays.  It  would  be  all 
over  before  anybody  could  get  ashore  to 
stop  them;  he  would  risk  old  Ferris  for 
that. 

Packer  began  to  row  with  all  his  might ; 
he  had  left  the  sail  ashore.  The  oars  grew 
hot  at  the  wooden  thole-pins,  and  he  pulled 
and  pulled.  There  would  be  three  quarters 
of  a  mile  to  run  up-hill  to  the  house,  and 
another  bit  to  the  trees  themselves,  after  he 
got  in.  By  that  time  the  two-man  saw,  and 
the  wedges,  and  the  Frenchmen's  shining 
axes,  might  have  spoiled  the  landmark  pines. 


272  A   NEIGHBOR'S   LANDMARK. 

"Lizzie's  there  —  she  '11  hold  'em  back  till 
I  come,"  he  gasped,  as  he  passed  Fish  Eock. 
"Oh,  Lord!  what  a  fool!  I  ain't  goin'  to 
have  them  trees  murdered;  "  and  he  set  his 
teeth  hard,  and  rowed  with  all  his  might. 

Joe  Banks  looked  out  of  the  little  four- 
paned  fish-house  window,  and  saw  the  dory 
coming,  and  hurried  to  the  door.  "What 's 
he  puttin'  in  so  for?"  said  he  to  himself, 
and  looked  up  the  coast  to  see  if  anything 
had  happened ;  the  house  might  be  on  fire. 
But  all  the  quiet  farms  looked  untroubled. 
"  He 's  pullin'  at  them  oars  as  if  the  devil 
was  after  him,"  said  Joe  to  himself.  "He 
could  n't  ha'  heard  o'  that  petition  they  're 
gettin'  up  from  none  of  the  fish  he 's  hauled 
in;  'twill  'bout  set  him  crazy,  but  I  was 
bound  I  'd  sign  it  with  the  rest.  The  old 
dory's  jumpin'  right  out  of  water  every 
stroke  he  pulls." 

v. 

The  next  night  the  Packer  farmhouse 
stood  in  the  winter  landscape  under  the  full 
moon,  just  as  it  had  stood  always,  with  a 
light  in  the  kitchen  window,  and  a  plume  of 
smoke  above  the  great,  square  chimney.  It 
was  about  half  past  seven  o'clock.  A  group 


A   NEIGHBOR'S   LANDMARK.  273 

of  men  were  lurking  at  the  back  of  the 
barn,  like  robbers,  and  speaking  in  low 
tones.  Now  and  then  the  horse  stamped  in 
the  barn,  or  a  cow  lowed ;  a  dog  was  bark 
ing,  away  over  on  the  next  farm,  with  an 
anxious  tone,  as  if  something  were  happen 
ing  that  he  could  not  understand.  The  sea 
boomed  along  the  shore  beyond  the  marshes; 
the  men  could  hear  the  rote  of  a  piece  of 
pebble  beach  a  mile  or  two  to  the  south 
ward  ;  now  and  then  there  was  a  faint  tinkle 
of  sleigh-bells.  The  fields  looked  wide  and 
empty ;  the  unusual  warmth  of  the  day  be 
fore  had  been  followed  by  clear  cold.  Sud 
denly  a  straggling  company  of  women  were 
seen  coming  from  the  next  house.  The  men 
at  the  barn  flapped  their  arms,  and  one  of 
them,  the  youngest,  danced  a  little  to  keep 
himself  warm. 

"Here  they  all  come,"  said  somebody, 
and  at  that  instant  the  sound  of  many  sleigh- 
bells  grew  loud  and  incessant,  and  far-away 
shouts  and  laughter  came  along  the  wind, 
fainter  in  the  hollows  and  loud  on  the  hills 
of  the  uneven  road.  "  Here  they  come !  I 
guess  you  'd  better  go  in,  Joe;  they  '11  want 
to  have  lights  ready." 

"  She  '11  have  a  fire  all  laid  for  him  in  the 


274  A   NEIGHBOR'S  LANDMARK. 

fore  room,"  said  the  young  man;  "that's 
all  we  want.  She  '11  be  expeetin'  you,  Joe ; 
go  in  now,  and  they  '11  think  nothin'  of  it, 
bein'  Saturday  night.  Just  you  hurry,  so 
they'll  have  time  to  light  up."  And  Joe 
went. 

"Stop  and  have  some  talk  with  father," 
whispered  Lizzie  affectionately  to  her  lover, 
as  she  came  to  meet  him.  "  He 's  all  worked 
up,  thinking  nobody  '11  respect  him,  an'  all 
that.  Tell  him  you  're  glad  he  beat."  And 
they  opened  the  kitchen  door. 

"What's  all  that  noise?"  said  John 
Packer,  dropping  his  weekly  newspaper, 
and  springing  out  of  his  chair.  He  looked 
paler  and  thinner  than  he  had  looked  the 
day  before.  "  What 's  all  that  noise,  Joe  ?  " 

There  was  a  loud  sound  of  bells  now,  and 
of  people  cheering.  Joe's  throat  had  a 
lump  in  it;  he  knew  well  enough  what  it 
was,  and  could  not  find  his  voice  to  tell. 
Everybody  in  the  neighborhood  was  coming, 
and  they  were  all  cheering  as  they  passed 
the  landmark  pines. 

"I  guess  the  neighbors  mean  to  give  you 
a  little  party  to-night,  sir,"  said  Joe.  "I 
see  six  or  eight  sleighs  comin'  along  the 
road.  They've  all  heard  about  it;  some  o' 


A   NEIGHBOR'S   LANDMARK.  275 

the  boys  that  was  here  with  the  riggin'  went 
down  to  the  store  last  night,  and  they  was 
all  telliii'  how  you  stood  right  up  to  Ferris 
like  a  king,  an'  drove  him.  You  see,  they  're 
all  gratified  on  account  of  having  you  put  a 
stop  to  Ferris's  tricks  about  them  pines,"  he 
repeated.  Joe  did  not  dare  to  look  at  Lizzie 
or  her  mother,  and  in  two  minutes  more  the 
room  began  to  fill  with  people,  and  John 
Packer,  who  usually  hated  company,  was 
shaking  hands  hospitably  with  everybody 
that  came. 

Half  an  hour  afterward,  Mr.  Packer  and 
Joe  Banks  and  Joe's  friend  Chauncey  were 
down  cellar  together,  filling  some  pitchers 
from  the  best  barrel  of  cider.  The  guests 
were  tramping  to  and  fro  overhead  in  the 
best  room ;  there  was  a  great  noise  of  buzz 
ing  talk  and  laughter. 

"Come,  sir,  give  us  a  taste  before  we  go 
up;  it 's  master  hot  up  there,"  said  Chaun 
cey,  who  was  nothing  if  not  convivial;  and 
the  three  men  drank  solemnly  in  turn  from 
the  smallest  of  the  four  pitchers ;  then  Mr. 
Packer  stooped  again  to  replenish  it. 

"Whatever  become  o'  that  petition?" 
whispered  Chauncey;  but  Joe  Banks  gave 


276  A    NEIGHBOR'S   LANDMARK. 

him  a  warning  push  with  his  elbow.  "  Wish 
ye  merry  Christmas!"  said  Chauncey  un 
expectedly  to  some  one  who  called  him  from 
the  stairhead. 

"Hold  that  light  nearer,"  said  Mr. 
Packer.  "Come,  Joe,  I  ain't  goin'  to  hear 
no  more  o'  that  nonsense  about  me  beatin' 
off  old  Ferris."  He  had  been  king  of  his 
Christmas  company  upstairs,  but  down  here 
he  was  a  little  ashamed. 

"Land!  there's  the  fiddle,"  said  Chaun 
cey.  "Le'  's  hurry  up;  "  and  the  three  cup 
bearers  hastened  back  up  the  cellar-stairs  to 
the  scene  of  festivity. 

The  two  Christmas  trees,  the  landmark 
pines,  stood  tall  and  strong  on  the  hill  look 
ing  down  at  the  shining  windows  of  the 
house.  There  was  a  sound  like  a  summer 
wind  in  their  tops ;  the  bright  moon  and  the 
stars  were  lighting  them,  and  all  the  land 
and  sea,  that  Christmas  night. 


ALL  MY  SAD   CAPTAINS. 
I. 

MKS.  PETER  LUNN  was  a  plump  little 
woman  who  bobbed  her  head  like  a  pigeon 
when  she  walked.  Her  best  dress  was  a 
handsome,  if  not  new,  black  silk  which  Cap 
tain  Lunn,  her  lamented  husband,  had 
bought  many  years  before  in  the  port  of 
Bristol.  The  decline  of  shipping  interests 
had  cost  this  worthy  shipmaster  not  only 
the  better  part  of  his  small  fortune,  but  also 
his  health  and  spirits;  and  he  had  died  a 
poor  man  at  last,  after  a  long  and  trying 
illness.  Such  a  lingering  disorder,  with  its 
hopes  and  despairs,  rarely  affords  the  same 
poor  compensations  to  a  man  that  it  does  to 
a  woman;  the  claims  upon  public  interest 
and  consideration,  the  dignity  of  being  as 
sailed  by  any  ailment  out  of  the  common 
course  —  all  these  things  are  to  a  man  but 
the  details  of  his  general  ignominy  and  im 
patience. 

Captain  Peter  Lunn  may  have  indulged 


278  ALL    MY   SAD    CAPTAINS. 

in  no  sense  of  his  own  consequence  and 
uniqueness  as  an  invalid ;  but  his  wife  bore 
herself  as  a  woman  should  who  was  the  hero 
ine  in  so  sad  a  drama,  and  she  went  and 
came  across  the  provincial  stage,  knowing 
that  her  audience  was  made  up  of  nearly 
the  whole  population  of  that  little  seaside 
town.  When  the  curtain  had  fallen  at  last, 
and  the  old  friends  —  seafaring  men  and 
others  and  their  wives  —  had  come  home 
from  Captain  Lunn's  funeral,  and  had 
spoken  their  friendly  thoughts,  and  reviewed 
his  symptoms  for  what  seemed  to  them  to 
be  the  last  time,  everybody  was  conscious  of 
a  real  anxiety.  The  future  of  the  captain's 
widow  was  sadly  uncertain,  for  every  one 
was  aware  that  Mrs.  Lunn  could  now  de 
pend  upon  only  a  scant  provision.  She 
was  much  younger  than  her  husband,  hav 
ing  been  a  second  wife,  and  she  was  thrifty 
and  ingenious ;  but  her  outlook  was  acknow 
ledged  to  be  anything  but  cheerful.  In 
truth,  the  honest  grief  that  she  displayed  in 
the  early  days  of  her  loss  was  sure  to  be 
better  understood  with  the  ancient  proverb 
in  mind,  that  a  lean  sorrow  is  hardest  to 
bear. 

To   everybody's    surprise,    however,   this 


ALL    MY  SAD    CAPTAINS.  279 

able  woman  succeeded  in  keeping  the  old 
Lunn  house  painted  to  the  proper  perfection 
of  whiteness;  there  never  were  any  loose 
bricks  to  be  seen  on  the  tops  of  her  chim 
neys.  The  relics  of  the  days  of  her  pros 
perity  kept  an  air  of  comfortable  continu 
ance  in  the  days  of  her  adversity.  The  best 
black  silk  held  its  own  nobly,  and  the  shin 
ing  roundness  of  its  handsome  folds  aided 
her  in  looking  prosperous  and  fit  for  all 
social  occasions.  She  lived  alone,  and  was 
a  busy  and  unprocrastinating  housekeeper. 
She  may  have  made  less  raspberry  jam  than 
in  her  earlier  days,  but  it  was  always  pound 
for  pound ;  while  her  sponge-cake  was  never 
degraded  in  its  ingredients  from  the  royal 
standard  of  twelve  eggs.  The  honest  Eng 
lish  and  French  stuffs  that  had  been  used  in 
the  furnishing  of  the  captain's  house  so 
many  years  before  faded  a  little  as  the  years 
passed  by,  but  they  never  wore  out.  Yet 
one  cannot  keep  the  same  money  in  one's 
purse,  if  one  is  never  so  thrifty,  and  so 
Mrs.  Lunn  came  at  last  to  feel  heavy  at 
heart  and  deeply  troubled.  To  use  the  com 
mon  phrase  of  her  neighbors,  it  was  high 
time  for  her  to  make  a  change.  She  had 
now  been  living  alone  for  four  years,  and 


280  ALL   MY  SAD    CAPTAINS. 

it  must  be  confessed  that  all  those  friends 
who  had  admired  her  self-respect  and  self- 
dependence  began  to  take  a  keener  interest 
than  ever  in  her  plans  and  behavior. 

The  first  indication  of  Mrs.  Lunn's  new 
purpose  in  life  was  her  mournful  allusion  to 
those  responsibilities  which  so  severely  tax 
the  incompetence  of  a  lone  woman.  She 
felt  obliged  to  ask  advice  of  a  friend;  in 
fact,  she  asked  the  advice  of  three  friends, 
and  each  responded  with  a  cordiality  delight 
ful  to  describe.  It  happened  that  there 
were  no  less  than  three  retired  shipmasters 
in  the  old  seaport  town  of  Longport  who 
felt  the  justice  of  our  heroine's  claims  upon 
society.  She  was  not  only  an  extremely 
pleasing  person,  but  she  had  the  wisdom  to 
conceal  from  Captain  Asa  Shaw  that  she 
had  taken  any  one  for  an  intimate  counselor 
but  himself;  and  the  same  secrecy  was  ob 
served  out  of  deference  to  the  feelings  and 
pride  of  Captain  Crowe  and  Captain  With- 
erspoon.  The  deplored  necessity  of  re-shing 
ling  her  roof  was  the  great  case  in  which 
she  threw  herself  upon  their  advice  and  as 
sistance. 

Now,  if  it  had  been  the  new  planking  of 
a  deck,  or  the  selection  and  stepping  of  a 


ALL   MY  SAD    CAPTAINS.  281 

mast,  the  counsel  of  two  of  these  captains 
would  have  been  more  likely  to  avail  a  help 
less  lady.  They  were  elderly  men,  and  had 
spent  so  much  of  their  lives  at  sea  that  they 
were  not  very  well  informed  about  shingling 
their  own  houses,  having  left  this  to  their 
wives,  or  agents,  or  some  other  land-fast 
persons.  They  recognized  the  truth  that  it 
would  not  do  to  let  the  project  be  publicly 
known,  for  fear  of  undue  advantage  being 
taken  over  an  unprotected  woman ;  but  each 
found  his  opportunity  to  acquire  informa 
tion,  and  to  impart  it  in  secret  to  Mrs. 
Limn.  It  sometimes  occurred  to  the  good 
woman  that  she  had  been  unwise  in  setting 
all  her  captains  upon  the  same  course,  es 
pecially  as  she  really  thought  that  the  old 
cedar  shingles  might  last,  with  judicious 
patching,  for  two  or  three  years  more.  But, 
in  spite  of  this  weakness  of  tactics,  she  was 
equal  to  her  small  campaign. 

It  now  becomes  necessary  that  the  reader 
should  have  some  closer  acquaintance  with 
the  captains  themselves;  and  to  that  end 
confession  must  be  made  of  the  author's  be 
lief  in  a  theory  of  psychological  misfits,  or 
the  occasional  occupation  of  large-sized  ma- 


282  ALL    MY   SAD    CAPTAINS. 

terial  bodies  by  small-sized  spiritual  tenants, 
and  the  opposite  of  this,  by  which  small 
shapes  of  clay  are  sometimes  animated  in 
the  noblest  way  by  lofty  souls.  This  was 
the  case  with  Captain  Witherspoon,  who, 
not  being  much  above  five  feet  in  height, 
bore  himself  like  a  giant,  and  carried  a  cane 
that  was  far  too  tall  for  him.  Not  so  Cap 
tain  Crowe,  who,  being  considerably  over 
six  feet,  was  small-voiced  and  easily  embar 
rassed,  besides  being  so  unconscious  of  the 
strength  and  size  of  his  great  body  that  he 
usually  bore  the  mark  of  a  blow  on  his 
forehead,  to  show  that  he  had  lately  at 
tempted  to  go  through  a  door  that  was  too 
low.  He  accounted  for  himself  only  as  far 
as  his  eyes,  and  in  groping  between  decks, 
or  under  garret  or  storehouse  eaves,  the 
poor  man  was  constantly  exposing  the  su 
perfluous  portion  of  his  frame  to  severe 
usage.  His  hats  were  always  more  or  less 
damaged.  He  was  altogether  unaware  of 
the  natural  dignity  of  his  appearance,  and 
bore  himself  with  great  honesty  and  simpli 
city,  as  became  a  small  and  timid  person. 
But  little  Captain  Witherspoon  had  a  heart 
of  fire.  He  spoke  in  a  loud  and  hearty 
voice.  He  was  called  "The  Captain"  by 


ALL    MY   SAD    CAPTAINS.  283 

his  townsfolk,  while  other  shipmasters,  ac 
tive  or  retired,  were  given  their  full  and 
distinctive  names  of  Captain  Crowe,  Cap 
tain  Eli  Proudfit,  or  Captain  Asa  Shaw,  as 
the  case  might  be. 

Captain  Asa  Shaw  was  another  aspirant 
for  the  hand  of  Mrs.  Maria  Limn.  He  had 
a  great  deal  more  money  than  his  rivals, 
and  was  the  owner  of  a  tugboat,  which 
brought  a  good  addition  to  his  income,  since 
Longport  was  at  the  mouth  of  a  river  on 
which  there  was  still  considerable  traffic. 
He  lacked  the  dignity  and  elegance  of  lei 
sure  which  belonged  to  Captains  Crowe  and 
Witherspoon,  but  the  fact  was  patent  that 
he  was  a  younger  man  than  they  by  half  a 
dozen  years.  He  was  not  a  member  of  one 
of  the  old  Longport  families,  and  belonged 
to  a  less  eminent  social  level.  His  straight 
forwardness  of  behavior  and  excellent  busi 
ness  position  were  his  chief  claims,  besides 
the  fact  that  he  was  not  only  rich,  but  grow 
ing  richer  every  day.  His  drawbacks  were 
the  carping  relatives  of  his  late  wife,  and 
his  four  unruly  children.  Captain  Crowe 
felt  himself  assured  of  success  in  his  suit, 
because  he  was  by  no  means  a  poor  man, 
and  because  he  owned  the  best  house  in 


284  ALL   MY   SAD    CAPTAINS. 

town,  over  which  any  woman  might  be  proud 
to  reign  as  mistress;  but  he  had  the  defect 
of  owing  a  home  to  two  maiden  sisters  who 
were  envious  and  uneasy  at  the  very  sug 
gestion  of  his  marrying  again.  They  con 
stantly  deplored  the  loss  of  their  sister-in- 
law,  and  paid  assiduous  and  open  respect  to 
her  memory  in  every  possible  way.  It 
seemed  certain  that  as  long  as  they  could 
continue  the  captain's  habit  of  visiting  her. 
grave,  in  their  company,  on  pleasant  Sun 
days,  he  was  in  little  danger  of  providing 
a  successor  to  reign  over  them.  They  had 
been  very  critical  and  hard-hearted  to  the 
meek  little  woman  while  she  was  alive,  and 
their  later  conduct  may  possibly  have  been 
moved  by  repentance. 

As  for  the  third  admirer  of  Mrs.  Lunn, 
Captain  Witherspoon,  he  was  an  unencum 
bered  bachelor  who  had  always  dreamed  of 
marrying,  but  had  never  wished  to  marry 
any  one  in  particular  until  Maria  Lunn  had 
engaged  his  late-blossoming  affections.  He 
had  only  a  slender  estate,  but  was  sure  that 
if  they  had  been  able  to  get  along  apart, 
they  could  get  on  all  the  better  together. 
His  lonely  habitation  was  with  a  deaf,  wid 
owed  cousin ;  his  hopes  were  great  that  he 


ALL    MY  SAD    CAPTAINS.  285 

was  near  to  having  that  happy  home  of  his 
own  of  which  he  had  dreamed  on  land  and 
sea  ever  since  he  was  a  boy.  He  was  young 
at  heart,  and  an  ardent  lover,  this  red-faced 
little  old  captain,  who  walked  in  the  Long- 
port  streets  as  if  he  were  another  Lord  Nel 
son,  afraid  of  nobody,  and  equal  to  his  for 
tunes. 

To  him,  who  had  long  admired  her  in 
secret,  Maria  Lunn's  confidence  in  regard 
to  the  renewing  of  her  cedar  shingles  had 
been  a  golden  joy.  He  could  hardly  help 
singing  as  he  walked,  at  this  proof  of  her 
confidence  and  esteem,  and  the  mellowing 
effect  of  an  eleven  o'clock  glass  of  refresh 
ment  put  his  willing  tongue  in  daily  danger 
of  telling  his  hopes  to  a  mixed  but  assuredly 
interested  company.  As  he  walked  by  the 
Lunn  house,  on  his  way  to  and  from  the 
harbor  side,  he  looked  at  it  with  a  feeling 
of  relationship  and  love;  he  admired  the 
clean  white  curtains  at  the  windows,  he  en 
vied  the  plump  tortoise-shell  cat  on  the  side 
doorstep;  if  he  saw  the  composed  and  plea 
sant  face  of  Maria  glancing  up  from  her 
sewing,  he  swept  his  hat  through  the  air 
with  as  gallant  a  bow  as  Longport  had  ever 
seen,  and  blushed  with  joy  and  pride.  Ma- 


286  ALL   MY  SAD    CAPTAINS. 

ria  Lunn  owned  to  herself  that  she  liked  him 
best,  as  far  as  he  himself  was  concerned; 
while  she  invariably  settled  it  with  her  judi 
cious  affections  that  she  must  never  think  of 
encouraging  the  captain,  who,  like  herself, 
was  too  poor  already.  Put  to  the  final  test, 
he  was  found  wanting;  he  was  no  man  of 
business,  and  had  lost  both  his  own  patri 
mony  and  early  savings  in  disastrous  ship 
ping  enterprises,  and  still  liked  to  throw 
down  his  money  to  any  one  who  was  willing 
to  pick  it  up.  But  sometimes,  when  she 
saw  him  pass  with  a  little  troop  of  children 
at  his  heels,  on  their  happy  way  to  the 
candy-shop  at  the  corner,  she  could  not  for 
bear  a  sigh,  or  to  say  to  herself,  with  a 
smile,  that  the  little  man  was  good-hearted, 
or  that  there  was  nobody  who  made  himself 
better  company;  perhaps  he  would  stop  in 
for  a  minute  as  he  came  up  the  street  again 
at  noon.  Her  sewing  was  not  making,  but 
mending,  in  these  days;  and  the  more  she 
had  to  mend,  the  more  she  sat  by  one  of  her 
front  windows,  where  the  light  was  good. 

II. 

One  evening  toward  the  end  of  summer 
there  came   a  loud   rap  at  the  knocker  of 


ALL    MY   SAD    CAPTAINS.  287 

Mrs.  Lumi's  front  door*.  It  was  the  sum 
mons  of  Captain  Asa  Shaw,  who  sought  a 
quiet  haven  from  the  discomforts  of  the  so 
ciety  of  his  sisters-in-law  and  his  notoriously 
ill-bred  children.  Captain  Shaw  was  pros 
perous,  if  not  happy ;  he  had  been  figuring 
up  accounts  that  rainy  afternoon,  and  found 
himself  in  good  case.  He  looked  burly  and 
commonplace  and  insistent  as  he  stood  on 
the  front  doorstep,  and  thought  Mrs.  Lunn 
was  long  in  coming.  At  the  same  moment 
when  she  had  just  made  her  appearance  with 
a  set  smile,  and  a  little  extra  color  in  her 
cheeks,  from  having  hastily  taken  off  her 
apron  and  tossed  it  into  the  sitting-room- 
closet,  and  smoothed  her  satin -like  black 
hair  on  the  way,  there  was  another  loud  rap 
on  the  smaller  side-door  knocker. 

"There  must  be  somebody  wanting  to 
speak  with  me  on  an  errand,"  she  prettily 
apologized,  as  she  offered  Captain  Shaw  the 
best  rocking-chair.  The  side  door  opened 
into  a  tiny  entry -way  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  and  she  unfastened  the  bolt  im 
patiently.  "Oh,  walk  right  in,  Cap'n 
Crowe!"  she  was  presently  heard  to  ex 
claim  ;  but  there  was  a  note  of  embarrass 
ment  in  her  tone,  and  a  look  of  provocation 


288  ALL    MY   SAD    CAPTAINS. 

on  her  face,  as  the  big  shipmaster  lumbered 
after  her  into  the  sitting-room.  Captain 
Shaw  had  taken  the  large  chair,  and  the 
newcomer  was  but  poorly  accommodated  on 
a  smaller  one  with  a  cane  seat.  The  walls 
of  the  old  Lunii  house  were  low,  and  his 
head  seemed  in  danger  of  knocking  itself; 
he  was  clumsier  and  bigger  than  ever  in  this 
moment  of  dismay.  His  sisters  had  worn 
his  patience  past  endurance,  and  he  had  it 
in  mind  to  come  to  a  distinct  understanding 
with  Mrs.  Lunn  that  very  night. 

Captain  Shaw  was  in  his  every-day 
clothes,  which  lost  him  a  point  in  Mrs. 
Lunn' s  observant  eyes;  but  Captain  Crowe 
had  paid  her  the  honor  of  putting  on  his 
best  coat  for  this  evening  visit.  She  thought 
at  first  that  he  had  even  changed  his  shirt, 
but  upon  reflection  remembered  that  this 
could  not  be  taken  as  a  special  recognition 
of  her  charms,  it  being  Wednesday  night. 
On  the  wharves,  or  in  a  down-town  office, 
the  two  men  were  by  way  of  being  good 
friends,  but  at  this  moment  great  Captain 
Crowe  openly  despised  his  social  inferior, 
and  after  a  formal  recognition  of  his  unwel 
come  presence  ignored  him  with  unusual 
bravery,  and  addressed  Mrs.  Lunn  with 


ALL    MY   SAD    CAPTAINS  289 

grave  politeness.  He  was  dimly  conscious 
of  the  younger  and  lesser  man's  being 
for  some  unexplainable  reason  a  formidable 
rival,  and  tried  blunderingly  to  show  the 
degree  of  intimacy  which  existed  between 
himself  and  the  lady. 

"I  just  looked  in  to  report  about  our  lit 
tle  matter  of  business.  I  've  got  the  esti 
mates  with  me,  but  'twill  do  just  as  well 
another  time,"  said  the  big  mariner  in  his 
disapproving,  soft  voice. 

Captain  Shaw  instinctively  scuffed  his 
feet  at  the  sound,  and  even  felt  for  his  ac 
count-book  in  an  inside  pocket  to  reassure 
himself  of  his  financial  standing.  "I  could 
buy  him  an'  sell  him  twice  over,"  he  mut 
tered  angrily,  as  loud  as  he  dared. 

Mrs.  Lunn  rose  to  a  command  of  the  oc 
casion  at  once ;  there  was  no  sense  in  men 
of  their  age  behaving  like  schoolboys.  "  Oh, 
my,  yes ! "  she  hastened  to  say,  as  she  rose 
with  a  simpering  smile.  U'T  ain't  as  if 
'twas  any  kind  o'  consequence,  you  know; 
not  but  what  I  'm  just  as  much  obliged." 

Captain  Crowe  scowled  now;  this  was 
still  the  affair  of  the  shingles,  and  it  had 
been  of  enough  consequence  two  days  before 
to  protract  a  conversation  through  two  long 


290  ALL    MY   SAD    CAPTAINS. 

hours.  He  had  wished  ever  since  that  he 
had  thought  then  to  tell  Mrs.  Lunn  that  if 
she  would  just  say  the  word,  she  never  need 
think  of  those  shingles  again,  nor  of  the  cost 
of  them.  It  would  have  been  a  pretty  way 
to  convey  the  state  of  his  feelings  toward 
her;  but  he  had  lost  the  opportunity,  it 
might  be  forever.  To  use  his  own  expres 
sion,  he  now  put  about  and  steered  a  new 
course. 

"I  come  by  your  house  just  now,"  he  said 
to  Captain  Shaw,  who  still  glowered  from 
the  rocking-chair.  "Your  young  folks 
seemed  to  be  haA7in'  a  great  time.  Well,  I 
like  to  see  young  folks  happy.  They  gen 
erally  be,"  he  chuckled  maliciously;  "'tis 
we  old  ones  have  the  worst  of  it,  soon  as 
they  begin  to  want  to  have  everything  their 
way." 

"I  don't  allow  no  trouble  for'ard  when 
I  'm  on  deck,"  said  Shipmaster  Shaw  more 
cheerfully;  he  hardly  recognized  the  covert 
allusion  to  his  drawbacks  as  a  suitor.  "I 
like  to  give  'em  their  liberty.  To-night 
they  were  bound  on  some  sort  of  a  racket 
—  they  got  some  other  young  folks  in ;  but 
gen'ally  they  do  pretty  well.  I  'm  goin'  to 
take  my  oldest  boy  right  into  the  office,  first 


ALL    MY   SAD    CAPTAINS.  291 

o'  January  —  put  him  right  to  business.  I 
need  more  help ;  I  've  got  too  much  now  for 
me  an'  Decket  to  handle,  though  Decket's 
a  good  accountant." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  I'm  out  of  it,"  said 
Captain  Crowe.  "I  don't  want  the  bother 
o'  business.  I  don't  need  to  slave." 

"No;  you  shouldn't  have  too  much  to 
carry  at  your  time  o'  life,"  rejoined  his 
friend,  in  a  tone  that  was  anything  but 
soothing;  and  at  this  moment  Maria  Lunn 
returned  with  her  best  lamp  in  full  bril 
liancy.  She  had  listened  eagerly  to  their 
exchange  of  compliments,  and  thought  it 
would  be  wise  to  change  the  subject. 

"What's  been  goin'  on  down  street  to 
day?  "  she  asked.  "I  have  n't  had  occasion 
to  go  out,  and  I  don't  have  anybody  to 
bring  me  the  news,  as  I  used  to." 

"  Here 's  Cap'n  Shaw  makin'  me  out  to 
be  old  enough  to  be  his  grandfather,"  in 
sisted  Captain  Crowe,  laughing  gently,  as 
if  he  had  taken  it  as  a  joke.  "Now,  every 
body  knows  I  ain't  but  five  years  the  oldest. 
Shaw,  you  must  n't  be  settin'  up  for  a  young 
dandy.  I  've  had  a  good  deal  more  sea  ser 
vice  than  you.  I  believe  you  never  went 
out  on  a  long  voyage  round  the  Cape  or  the 


292  ALL    MY   SAD    CAPTAINS. 

like  o'  that ;  those  long  voyages  count  a  man 
two  years  to  one,  if  they  're  hard  passages." 

"No;  I  only  made  some  few  trips;  the 
rest  you  might  call  coastin',"  said  Captain 
Shaw  handsomely.  The  two  men  felt  more 
at  ease  and  reasonable  with  this  familiar 
subject  of  experience  and  discussion.  "I 
come  to  the  conclusion  I  'd  better  stop 
ashore.  If  I  could  ever  have  found  me  a 
smart,  dependable  crew,  I  might  have  fol 
lowed  the  sea  longer  than  I  did." 

It  was  in  the  big  captain's  heart  to  say, 
"Poor  master,  poor  crew;  "  but  he  refrained. 
It  had  been  well  known  that  in  spite  of 
Shaw's  ability  as  a  money-maker  on  shore, 
he  was  no  seaman,  and  never  had  been. 
Mrs.  Lunn  was  sure  to  have  heard  his  de 
fects  commented  on,  but  she  sat  by  the 
table,  smiling,  and  gave  no  sign,  though 
Captain  Crowe  looked  at  her  eagerly  for  a 
glance  of  understanding  and  contempt. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  and  no 
body  seemed  to  know  what  to  say  next. 
Mrs.  Maria  Lunn  was  not  a  great  talker  in 
company,  although  so  delightful  in  confi 
dence  and  consultation.  She  wished  now, 
from  the  bottom  of  her  heart,  that  one  of 
her  admirers  would  go  away;  but  at  this 


ALL    MY   SAD    CAPTAINS.  293 

instant  there  was  a  loud  tapping  at  a  back 
door  in  the  farther  end  of  the  house. 

" 1  thought  I  heard  somebody  knocking  a 
few  minutes  ago."  Captain  Crowe  rose  like 
a  buoy  against  i\e  ceiling.  "Here,  now, 
I  'm  go  in'  to  the  door  for  you,  Mis'  Lunn ; 
there  may  be  a  tramp  or  somethin'." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  the  little  woman,  anx 
iously  bustling  past  him,  and  lifting  the 
hand-lamp  as  she  went.  "I  guess  it's  only 
somebody  to  speak  about  the  washing.  Mrs. 
Dimmett's  been  sick" —  The  last  words 
were  nearly  lost  in  the  distance,  and  in  the 
draught  a  door  closed  after  her,  and  the  two 
captains  were  left  alone.  Some  minutes 
went  by  before  they  suddenly  heard  the 
sound  of  a  familiar  voice. 

"  I  don't  know  but  what  I  will,  after  all, 
step  in  an'  set  down  for  just  a  minute,"  said 
the  hearty  voice  of  little  Captain  Wither- 
spoon.  "I'll  just  wash  my  hands  here  at 
the  sink,  if  you  '11  let  me,  same 's  I  did  the 
other  day.  I  should  n't  have  bothered  you 
so  late  about  a  mere  fish,  but  they  was  such 
prime  mackerel,  an'  I  thought  like 's  not 
one  of  'em  would  make  you  a  breakfast." 

"You're  always  very  considerate,"  an 
swered  Mrs.  Lunn,  in  spite  of  what  she  felt 


294  ALL    MY   SAD    CAPTAINS. 

to  be  a  real  emergency.  She  was  very  fond 
of  mackerel,  and  these  were  the  first  of  the 
season.  "Walk  right  in,  Cap'n  Wither- 
spoon,  when  you  get  ready.  You  '11  find 
some  o'  your  friends.  'T  is  'The  Cap'n,' 
gentlemen,"  she  added,  in  a  pleased  tone, 
as  she  rejoined  her  earlier  guests. 

If  Captain  Witherspoon  had  also  indulged 
a  hope  of  finding  his  love  alone,  he  made  no 
sign;  it  would  be  beneath  so  valiant  and 
gallant  a  man  to  show  defeat.  He  shook 
hands  with  both  his  friends  as  if  he  had  not 
seen  them  for  a  fortnight,  and  then  drew 
one  of  the  Windsor  chairs  forward,  forcing 
the  two  companions  into  something  like  a 
social  circle. 

"What's  the  news?"  he  demanded. 
"Anything  heard  from  the  new  minister 
yet,  Crowe?  I  suppose,  though,  the  ladies 
are  likely  to  hear  of  those  matters  first." 

Mrs.  Lunn  was  grateful  to  this  promoter 
of  friendly  intercourse.  "Yes,  sir,"  she 
answered  quickly;  "I  was  told,  just  before 
tea,  that  he  had  written  to  Deacon  Torby 
that  he  felt  moved  to  accept  the  call." 

Her  eyes  shone  with  pleasure  at  having 
this  piece  of  news.  She  had  been  thinking 
a  great  deal  about  it  just  before  the  two 


ALL    MY  SAD    CAPTAINS.  295 

captains  came  in,  but  their  mutual  dismay 
had  been  such  an  infliction  that  for  once  she 
had  been  in  danger  of  forgetting  her  best 
resources.  Now,  with  the  interest  of  these 
parishioners  in  their  new  minister,  the  pro 
priety,  not  to  say  the  enjoyment,  of  the  rest 
of  the  evening  was  secure.  Captain  With- 
erspoon  went  away  earliest,  as  cheerfully 
as  he  had  come;  and  Captain  Shaw  rose 
and  followed  him  for  the  sake  of  having 
company  along  the  street.  Captain  Crowe 
lingered  a  few  moments,  so  obtrusively 
that  he  seemed  to  fill  the  whole  sitting- 
room,  while  he  talked  about  unimportant 
matters;  and  at  last  Mrs.  Limn  knocked  a 
large  flat  book  off  the  end  of  the  sofa  for  no 
other  reason  than  to  tell  him  that  it  was 
one  of  Captain  Wither  spoon's  old  log-books 
which  she  had  taken  great  pleasure  in  read 
ing.  She  did  not  explain  that  it  was  asked 
for  because  of  other  records ;  her  late  hus 
band  had  also  been  in  command  —  one  voy 
age  —  of  the  ship  Mary  Susan. 

Captain  Crowe  went  grumbling  away 
down  the  street.  "I've  seen  his  plaguy 
logs;  and  what  she  can  find,  I  don't  see. 
There  ain't  nothin'  to  a  page  but  his  figures, 
and  what  men  were  sick,  and  how  the  seas 


296  ALL    MY   SAD    CAPTAINS. 

run,  an'  '  So  ends  the  day.' '  It  was  a  ter 
rible  indication  of  rivalry  that  the  captain 
felt  at  liberty  to  bring  his  confounded  fish 
to  any  door  he  chose ;  and  his  very  willing 
ness  to  depart  early  and  leave  the  field 
might  prove  him  to  possess  a  happy  cer 
tainty,  Captain  Crowe  was  so  jealous  that 
he  almost  forgot  to  play  his  role  of  lover. 

As  for  Mrs.  Lunn  herself,  she  blew  out 
the  best  lamp  at  once,  so  that  it  would  burn 
another  night,  and  sat  and  pondered  over 
her  future.  "'Twas  real  awkward  to  have 
'em  all  call  together ;  but  I  guess  I  passed 
it  off  pretty  well,"  she  consoled  herself, 
casting  an  absent-minded  glance  at  her  little 
blurred  mirror  with  the  gilded  wheat-sheaf 
at  the  top. 

"  Everybody  's  after  her ;  I  've  got  to  look 
sharp,"  said  Captain  Asa  Shaw  to  himself 
that  night.  "  I  guess  I  'd  better  give  her  to 
understand  what  I  'm  worth." 

"Both  o'  them  old  sea-dogs  is  steerin'  for 
the  same  port  as  I  be.  I  '11  cut  'em  out,  if 
only  for  the  name  of  it  —  see  if  I  don't!" 
Captain  Crowe  muttered,  as  he  smoked  his 
evening  pipe,  puffing  away  with  a  great 
draught  that  made  the  tobacco  glow  and 
almost  flare. 


ALL   MY  SAD    CAPTAINS.  297 

"  I  care  a  world  more  about  poor  Maria 
than  anybody  else  does,"  said  warm-hearted 
little  Captain  Wither  spoon,  making  himself 
as  tall  as  he  could  as  he  walked  his  bedroom 
deck  to  and  fro. 

in. 

Down  behind  the  old  Witherspoon  ware 
house,  built  by  the  captain's  father  when 
the  shipping  interests  of  Longport  were  at 
their  height  of  prosperity,  there  was  a  plea 
sant  spot  where  one  might  sometimes  sit  in 
the  cool  of  the  afternoon.  There  were  some 
decaying  sticks  of  huge  oak  timber,  stout 
and  short,  which  served  well  for  benches; 
the  gray,  rain-gnawed  wall  of  the  old  ware 
house,  with  its  overhanging  second  story, 
was  at  the  back ;  and  in  front  was  the  wharf, 
still  well  graveled  except  where  tenacious, 
wiry  weeds  and  thin  grass  had  sprouted,  and 
been  sunburned  into  sparse  hay.  There  were 
some  places,  alas!  where  the  planking  had 
rotted  away,  and  one  could  look  down 
through  and  see  the  clear,  green  water  un 
derneath,  and  the  black,  sea-worn  piles  with 
their  fringes  of  barnacles  and  seaweed. 
Captain  Crowe  gave  a  deep  sigh  as  he  sat 
heavily  down  on  a  stick  of  timber;  then  he 


298  ALL    MY   SAD    CAPTAINS. 

heard  a  noise  above,  and  looked  up,  to  see 
at  first  only  the  rusty  windlass  under  the 
high  gable,  with  its  end  of  frayed  rope  fly 
ing  loose;  then  one  of  the  wooden  shutters 
was  suddenly  flung  open,  and  swung  to 
again,  and  fastened.  Captain  Crowe  was 
sure  now  that  he  should  gain  a  companion. 
Captain  Witherspoon  was  in  the  habit  of 
airing  the  empty  warehouse  once  a  week  — 
Wednesdays,  if  pleasant;  it  was  nearly  all 
the  active  business  he  had  left;  and  this 
was  Thursday,  but  Wednesday  had  been 
rainy. 

Presently  the  Captain  appeared  at  the 
basement  doorway,  just  behind  where  his 
friend  was  sitting.  The  door  was  seldom 
opened,  but  the  owner  of  the  property  pro 
fessed  himself  forgetful  about  letting  in  as 
much  fresh  air  there  as  he  did  above,  and 
announced  that  he  should  leave  it  open  for 
half  an  hour.  The  two  men  moved  a  little 
way  along  the  oak  stick  to  be  out  of  the  cool 
draught  which  blew  from  the  cellar-like 
place,  empty  save  for  the  storage  of  some 
old  fragments  of  vessels  or  warehouse  gear. 
There  was  a  musty  odor  of  the  innumerable 
drops  of  molasses  which  must  have  leaked 
into  the  hard  earth  there  for  half  a  century; 


ALL   MY  SAD    CAPTAINS.  299 

there  was  still  a  fragrance  of  damp  Liver 
pool  salt,  a  reminder  of  even  the  dyestuffs 
and  pepper  and  rich  spices  that  had  been 
stowed  away.  The  two  elderly  men  were 
carried  back  to  the  past  by  these  familiar, 
ancient  odors ;  they  turned  and  sniffed  once 
or  twice  with  satisfaction,  but  neither  spoke. 
Before  them  the  great,  empty  harbor  spread 
its  lovely,  shining  levels  in  the  low  after 
noon  light.  There  were  a  few  ephemeral 
pleasure-boats,  but  no  merchantmen  riding 
at  anchor,  no  lines  of  masts  along  the 
wharves,  with  great  wrappings  of  furled 
sails  on  the  yards ;  there  were  no  sounds  of 
mallets  on  the  ships'  sides,  or  of  the  voices 
of  men,  busy  with  unlading,  or  moving  the 
landed  cargoes.  The  old  warehouses  were 
all  shuttered  and  padlocked,  as  far  as  the 
two  men  could  see. 

"Looks  lonesomer  than  ever,  don't  it?" 
said  Captain  Crowe,  pensively.  "I  vow 
it 's  a  shame  to  see  such  a  harbor  as  this, 
an'  think  o'  all  the  back  country,  an'  how 
things  were  goin'  on  here  in  our  young 
days." 

u'Tis  sad,  sir,  sad,"  growled  brave  little 
Captain  Witherspoon.  "They  've  taken  the 
wrong  course  for  the  country's  good  —  some 


300  ALL    MY   SAD    CAPTAINS. 

o'  those  folks  in  Washington.  When  the 
worst  of  'em  have  stuffed  their  own  pockets 
as  full  as  they  can  get,  pVaps  they  '11  see 
what  else  can  be  done,  and  all  catch  hold 
together  and  shore  up  the  shipping  int'rists. 
I  see  every  night,  when  I  go  after  my  paper^ 
the  whole  sidewalk  full  o'  louts  that  ought 
to  be  pushed  off  to  sea  with  a  good  smart 
master ;  they  're  going  to  the  devil  ashore, 
sir.  Every  way  you  can  look  at  it,  ship- 
pin'  's  a  loss  to  us." 

At  this  moment  the  shrill  whistle  of  a 
locomotive  sounded  back  of  the  town,  but 
the  captains  took  no  notice  of  it.  Two  idle 
boys  suddenly  came  scrambling  up  the 
broken  landing-steps  from  the  water,  one 
of  them  clutching  a  distressed  puppy.  Then 
another,  who  had  stopped  to  fasten  the  in 
visible  boat  underneath,  joined  them  in 
haste,  and  all  three  fled  round  the  corner. 
The  elderly  seamen  had  watched  them  se 
verely. 

"  It  used  to  cost  but  a  ninepence  to  get  a 
bar'l  from  Boston  by  sea,"  said  Captain 
Crowe,  in  a  melancholy  tone;  "and  now  it 
costs  twenty-five  cents  by  the  railroad,  sir." 

In  reply  Captain  Witherspoon  shook  his 
head  gloomily. 


ALL   MY  SAD    CAPTAINS.  301 

"You  an'  I  never  expected  to  see  Long- 
port  harbor  look  like  this,"  resumed  Captain 
Crowe,  giving  the  barren  waters  a  long 
gaze,  and  then  leaning  forward  and  pushing 
the  pebbles  about  with  his  cane.  "I  don't 
know  's  I  ever  saw  things  look  so  poor  along 
these  wharves  as  they  do  to-day.  I  've 
seen  six  or  seven  large  vessels  at  a  time 
waitin'  out  in  the  stream  there  until  they 
could  get  up  to  the  wharves.  You  could 
stand  ashore  an'  hear  their  masters  rippin' 
an'  swearin'  aboard,  an'  fur 's  you  could  see 
from  here,  either  way,  the  masts  and  riggin' 
looked  like  the  woods  in  winter-time.  There 
used  to  be  somethin'  doin'  in  this  place  when 
we  was  young  men,  Cap'n  Witherspoon." 

"I  feel  it  as  much  as  anybody,"  acknow- 
leged  the  captain.  "Looks  to  me  very 
much  as  if  there  was  a  vessel  comin'  up, 
down  there  over  Dimmett's  P'int ;  she  may 
only  be  runnin'  in  closer  'n  usual  on  this 
light  sou'easterly  breeze ;  yes,  I  s'pose  that 's 
all.  What  do  you  make  her  out  to  be, 
sir?" 

The  old  shipmasters  bent  their  keen,  far- 
sighted  gaze  seaward  for  a  moment.  "  She 
ain't  comin'  in ;  she 's  only  one  o'  them  great 
schooners  runnin'  west'ard.  I  'd  as  soon 


302  ALL   MY  SAD    CAPTAINS. 

put  to  sea  under  a  Monday's  clothes-line, 
for  my  part,"  said  Captain  Crowe. 

"Yes;  give  me  a  brig,  sir,  a  good  able 
brig,"  said  Witherspoon  eagerly.  "I  don't 
care  if  she 's  a  little  chunky,  neither.  I  'd 
make  more  money  out  of  her  than  out  o' 
any  o'  these  gre't  new-fangled  things.  I  'd 
as  soon  try  to  sail  a  whole  lumber-yard  to 
good  advantage.  Gi'  me  an  old-fashioned 
house  an'  an  old-style  vessel;  there  was 
some  plan  an'  reason  to  'em.  Now  that  new 
house  of  Asa  Shaw's  he  's  put  so  much 
money  in  —  looks  as  if  a  nor' west  wind  took 
an'  hove  it  together.  Shaw  's  just  the  man 
to  call  for  one  o'  them  schooners  we  just 
spoke  of." 

The  mention  of  this  rival's  name  caused 
deep  feelings  in  their  manly  breasts.  The 
captains  felt  an  instant  resentment  of  Asa 
Shaw's  wealth  and  pretensions.  Neither  no 
ticed  that  the  subject  was  abruptly  changed 
without  apparent  reason,  when  Captain 
Crowe  asked  if  there  was  any  truth  in  the 
story  that  the  new  minister  was  going  to 
take  board  with  the  Widow  Lunn. 

"No,  sir,"  exclaimed  Captain  Wither 
spoon,  growing  red  in  the  face,  and  speak 
ing  angrily ;  "  I  don't  put  any  confidence  in 
the  story  at  all." 


ALL    MY  SAD    CAPTAINS.  303 

"It  might  be  of  mutual  advantage,"  his 
companion  urged  a  little  maliciously.  Cap 
tain  Crowe  had  fancied  that  Mrs.  Lunn 
had  shown  him  special  favor  that  afternoon, 
and  ventured  to  think  himself  secure. 

"  The  new  minister  's  a  dozen  years  younger 
than  she;  must  be  all  o'  that,"  said  the 
Captain,  collecting  himself.  "I  called  him 
quite  a  young-lookin'  man  when  he  preached 
for  us  as  a  candidate.  Sing'lar  he  should 
n't  be  a  married  man.  Generally  they  be." 

"You  ain't  the  right  one  to  make  reflec 
tions,"  joked  Captain  Crowe,  mindful  that 
Maria  Lunn  had  gone  so  far  that  very  day 
as  to  compliment  him  upon  owning  the 
handsomest  old  place  in  town.  "I  used 
to  think  you  was  a  great  beau  among  the 
ladies,  Witherspoon." 

"I  never  expected  to  die  a  single  man," 
said  his  companion,  with  dignity. 

"You're  gettin'  along  in  years,"  urged 
Captain  Crowe.  "You're  gettin' to  where 
it 's  dangerous ;  a  good-hearted  elderly  man  's 
liable  to  be  snapped  up  by  somebody  he 
don't  want.  They  say  an  old  man  ought  to 
be  married,  but  he  shouldn't  get  married. 
I  don't  know  but  it 's  so." 

"  I  've   put   away  my  thoughts  o'  youth 


304  ALL    MY   SAD    CAPTAINS. 

long  since,"  said  the  little  captain  nobly. 
"  Though  I  ain't  so  old,  sir,  but  what  I  've 
got  some  years  before  me  yet,  unless  I  meet 
with  accident ;  an'  I  'in  so  situated  that  I 
never  yet  had  to  take  anybody  that  I  did  n't 
want.  But  I  do  often  feel  that  there 's 
somethin'  to  be  said  for  the  affections,  an' 
I  get  to  feelin'  lonesome  winter  nights, 
thinkin'  that  age  is  before  me,  an'  if  I 
should  get  hove  on  to  a  sick  an'  dyin' 
bed  "  - 

The  captain's  hearty  voice  failed  for  once ; 
then  the  pleasant  face  and  sprightly  figure 
of  the  lady  of  his  choice  seemed  to  inter 
pose,  and  to  comfort  him.  "Come,  come!  " 
he  said,  "ain't  we  gettin'  into  the  doldrums, 
Crowe?  I'll  just  step  in  an'  close  up  the 
warehouse;  it  must  be  time  to  make  for 
supper." 

Captain  Crowe  walked  slowly  round  by 
the  warehouse  lane  into  the  street,  waiting 
at  the  door  while  his  friend  went  through 
the  old  building,  carefully  putting  up  the 
bars  and  locking  the  street  door  upon  its 
emptiness  with  a  ponderous  key;  then  the 
two  captains  walked  away  together,  the  tall 
one  and  the  short  one,  clicking  their  canes 
on  the  flagstones.  They  turned  up  Barba- 


ALL    MY  SAD    CAPTAINS.  305 

does  Street,   where  Mrs.  Lunn  lived,  and 
bowed  to  her  finely  as  they  passed. 

IV. 

One  Sunday  morning  in  September  the 
second  bell  was  just  beginning  to  toll,  and 
Mrs.  Limn  locked  her  front  door,  tried  the 
great  brass  latch,  put  the  heavy  key  into  her 
best  silk  dress  pocket,  and  stepped  forth  dis 
creetly  on  her  way  to  church.  She  had  been 
away  from  Longport  for  several  weeks,  hav 
ing  been  sent  for  to  companion  the  last  days 
of  a  cousin  much  older  than  herself;  and 
her  reappearance  was  now  greeted  with  much 
friendliness.  The  siege  of  her  heart  had 
necessarily  been  in  abeyance.  She  walked 
to  her  seat  in  the  broad  aisle  with  great 
dignity.  It  was  a  season  of  considerable 
interest  in  Longport,  for  the  new  minister 
had  that  week  been  installed,  and  that  day 
he  was  to  preach  his  first  sermon.  All  the 
red  East  Indian  scarfs  and  best  raiment  of 
every  sort  suitable  for  early  autumn  wear 
had  been  brought  out  of  the  camphor-chests, 
and  there  was  an  air  of  solemn  festival. 

Mrs.  Lunn's  gravity  of  expression  was 
hardly  borne  out  by  her  gayety  of  apparel, 
yet  there  was  something  cheerful  about  her 


306  .47.7,    MY  SAD    CAPTAINS. 

look,  in  spite  of  her  recent  bereavement. 
The  cousin  who  had  just  died  had  in  times 
past  visited  Longport,  so  that  Mrs.  Lmm's 
friends  were  the  more  ready  to  express  their 
regret.  When  one  has  passed  the  borders 
of  middle  life,  such  losses  are  sadly  met; 
they  break  the  long  trusted  bonds  of  old 
association,  and  remove  a  part  of  one's 
own  life  and  belongings.  Old  friends  grow 
dearer  as  they  grow  fewer;  those  who  re 
member  us  as  long  as  we  remember  our 
selves  become  a  part  of  ourselves  at  last, 
and  leave  us  much  the  poorer  when  they  are 
taken  away.  Everybody  felt  sorry  for  Mrs. 
Lunn,  especially  as  it  was  known  that  this 
cousin  had  always  been  as  generous  as  her 
income  would  allow;  but  she  was  chiefly 
dependent  upon  an  annuity,  and  was  thought 
to  have  but  little  to  leave  behind  her. 

Mrs.  Lunn  had  reached  home  only  the 
evening  before,  and,  the  day  of  her  return 
having  been  uncertain,  she  was  welcomed 
by  no  one,  and  had  slipped  in  at  her  own 
door  unnoticed  in  the  dusk.  There  was  a 
little  stir  in  the  congregation  as  she  passed 
to  her  pew,  but,  being  in  affliction,  she 
took  no  notice  of  friendly  glances,  and  re 
sponded  with  great  gravity  only  to  her 


ALL    MY   SAD    CAPTAINS.  307 

neighbor  in  the  next  pew,  with  whom  she 
usually  exchanged  confidential  whispers  as 
late  as  the  second  sentence  of  the  opening 
prayer. 

The  new  minister  was  better  known  to 
her  than  to  any  other  member  of  the  parish ; 
for  he  had  been  the  pastor  of  the  church  to 
which  her  lately  deceased  cousin  belonged, 
and  Mrs.  Lunn  had  seen  him  oftener  and 
more  intimately  than  ever  in  this  last  sad 
visit.  He  was  a  fine-looking  man,  no  longer 
young,  —  in  fact,  he  looked  quite  as  old  as 
our  heroine,  —  and  though  at  first  the  three 
captains  alone  may  have  regarded  him  with 
suspicion,  by  the  time  church  was  over  and 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Farley  had  passed  quickly  by 
some  prominent  parishioners  who  stood  ex 
pectant  at  the  doors  of  their  pews,  in  order 
to  speak  to  Mrs.  Lunn,  and  lingered  a  few 
moments  holding  her  affectionately  by  the 
hand  —  by  this  time  gossip  was  fairly  kin 
dled.  Moreover,  the  minister  had  declined 
Deacon  Torby's  invitation  to  dinner,  and  it 
was  supposed,  though  wrongly,  that  he  had 
accepted  Mrs.  Lunn's,  as  they  walked  away 
together. 

Now  Mrs.  Lunn  was  a  great  favorite 
in  the  social  circles  of  Longport  —  none 


308  ALL    MY   SAD    CAPTAINS. 

greater;  but  there  were  other  single  ladies 
in  the  First  Parish,  and  it  was  something  to 
be  deeply  considered  whether  she  had  the 
right,  with  so  little  delay,  to  appropriate 
the  only  marriageable  minister  who  had 
been  settled  over  that  church  and  society 
during  a  hundred  and  eighteen  years.  There 
was  a  loud  buzzing  of  talk  that  Sunday  af 
ternoon.  It  was  impossible  to  gainsay  the 
fact  that  if  there  was  a  prospective  engage 
ment,  Mrs.  Lunn  had  shown  her  usual  dis 
cretion.  The  new  minister  had  a  proper 
income,  but  no  house  and  home;  while  she 
had  a  good  house  and  home,  but  no  income. 
She  was  called  hard  names,  which  would 
have  deeply  wounded  her,  by  many  of  her 
intimate  friends ;  but  there  were  others  who 
more  generously  took  her  part,  though  they 
vigorously  stated  their  belief  that  a  young 
married  pastor  with  a  growing  family  had 
his  advantages.  The  worst  thing  seemed  to 
be  that  the  Rev.  Mr.  Farley  was  beginning 
his  pastorate  under  a  cloud. 

While  all  this  tempest  blew,  and  all  eyes 
were  turned  her  way,  friends  and  foes  alike 
behaved  as  if  not  only  themselves  but  the 
world  were  concerned  with  Mrs.  Maria 
Lunn's  behavior,  and  as  if  the  fate  of  em- 


ALL    MY   SAD    CAPTAINS.  309 

pires  hung  upon  her  choice  of  a  consort. 
She  was  maligned  by  Captain  Crowe's  two 
sisters  for  having  extended  encouragement 
to  their  brother,  while  the  near  relatives  of 
Captain  Shaw  told  tales  of  her  open  efforts 
to  secure  his  kind  attention ;  but  in  spite  of 
all  these  things,  and  the  antagonism  that 
was  in  the  very  air,  Mrs.  Lunn  went  se 
renely  on  her  way.  She  even,  after  a  few 
days'  seclusion,  arrayed  herself  in  her  best, 
and  set  forth  to  make  some  calls  with  a 
pleasant,  unmindful  manner  which  puzzled 
her  neighbors  a  good  deal.  She  had,  or 
professed  to  have,  some  excuse  for  visiting 
each  house :  of  one  friend  she  asked  instruc 
tions  about  her  duties  as  newly  elected  offi 
cer  of  the  sewing  society,  the  first  meeting 
of  which  had  been  held  in  her  absence ;  and 
another  neighbor  was  kindly  requested  to 
give  the  latest  news  from  an  invalid  son  at 
a  distance.  Mrs.  Lunn  did  not  make  such 
a  breach  of  good  manners  as  to  go  out  mak 
ing  calls  with  no  reason  so  soon  after  her 
cousin's  death.  She  appeared  rather  in  her 
most  friendly  and  neighborly  character ;  and 
furthermore  gave  much  interesting  informa 
tion  in  regard  to  the  new  minister,  telling 
many  pleasant  things  about  him  and  his  re- 


310  ALL    MY   SAD    CAPTAINS. 

lations  to,  and  degree  of  success  in,  his  late 
charge.  There  may  or  may  not  have  been 
an  air  of  proprietorship  in  her  manner ;  she 
was  frank  and  free  of  speech,  at  any  rate ; 
and  so  the  flame  of  interest  was  fanned  ever 
to  a  brighter  blaze. 

The  reader  can  hardly  be  expected  to 
sympathize  with  the  great  excitement  in 
Longport  society  when  it  was  known  that 
the  new  minister  had  engaged  board  with 
Mrs.  Lunn  for  an  indefinite  time.  There 
was  something  very  puzzling  in  this  new 
development.  If  there  was  an  understand 
ing  between  them,  then  the  minister  and 
Mrs.  Lunn  were  certainly  somewhat  indis 
creet.  Nobody  could  discredit  the  belief 
that  they  had  a  warm  interest  in  each  other ; 
yet  those  persons  who  felt  themselves  most 
nearly  concerned  in  the  lady's  behavior  be 
gan  to  indulge  themselves  in  seeing  a  ray  of 
hope. 

v. 

Captain  Asa  Shaw  had  been  absent  for 
some  time  in  New  York  on  business,  and 
Captain  Crowe  was  confined  to  his  hand 
some  house  with  a  lame  ankle ;  but  it  hap 
pened  that  they  both  reappeared  on  the 
chief  business  street  of  Longport  the  very 


ALL   MY  SAD    CAPTAINS.  311 

same  day.  One  might  have  fancied  that 
each  wore  an  expression  of  anxiety;  the 
truth  was,  they  had  made  vows  to  them 
selves  that  another  twenty -four  hours  should 
not  pass  over  their  heads  before  they  made 
a  bold  push  for  the  coveted  prize.  They 
were  more  afraid  of  the  minister's  rivalry 
than  they  knew ;  but  not  the  least  of  each 
other's.  There  were  angry  lines  down  the 
middle  of  Captain  Asa  Shaw's  forehead  as 
he  assured  himself  that  he  would  soon  put 
an  end  to  the  minister  business,  and  Captain 
Crowe  thumped  his  cane  emphatically  as  he 
walked  along  the  street.  Captain  John  With- 
erspoon  looked  thin  and  eager,  but  a  hopeful 
light  shone  in  his  eyes :  his  choice  was  not 
from  his  judgment,  but  from  his  heart. 

It  was  strange  that  it  should  be  so  dif 
ficult  —  nay,  impossible  - —  for  anybody  to 
find  an  opportunity  to  speak  with  Mrs. 
Lunn  upon  this  most  private  and  sacred 
of  personal  affairs,  and  that  day  after  day 
went  by  while  the  poor  captains  fretted  and 
grew  more  and  more  impatient.  They  had 
it  in  mind  to  speak  at  once  when  the  time 
came;  neither  Captain  Crowe  nor  Captain 
Shaw  felt  that  he  could  do  himself  or  his 
feelings  any  justice  in  a  letter. 


312  ALL    MY   SAD    CAPTAIN'S. 

On  a  rainy  autumn  afternoon,  Mrs.  Limn 
sat  down  by  her  front  window,  and  drew 
her  wicker  work-basket  into  her  lap  from 
the  end  of  the  narrow  table  before  her.  She 
was  tired,  and  glad  to  rest.  She  had  been 
busy  all  the  morning,  putting  in  order  the 
rooms  that  were  to  be  set  apart  for  the 
minister's  sleeping-room  and  study.  Her 
thoughts  were  evidently  pleasant  as  she 
looked  out  into  the  street  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  then  crossed  her  plump  hands  over  the 
work-basket.  Presently,  as  a  large,  famil 
iar  green  umbrella  passed  her  window,  she 
caught  up  a  bit  of  sewing,  and  seemed  to  be 
busy  with  it,  as  some  one  opened  her  front 
door  and  came  into  the  little  square  entry 
without  knocking. 

"May  I  take  the  liberty?  I  saw  you 
settin'  by  the  window  this  wet  day,"  said 
Captain  Shaw. 

"Walk  right  in,  sir;  do!"  Mrs.  Lunn 
fluttered  a  little  on  her  perch  at  the  sight  of 
him,  and  then  settled  herself  quietly,  as  trig 
and  demure  as  ever. 

"I'm  glad,  ma'am,  to  find  you  alone.  I 
have  long  had  it  in  mind  to  speak  with  you 
on  a  matter  of  interest  to  us  both."  The 
captain  felt  more  embarrassed  than  he  had 


ALL   MY  SAD    CAPTAINS.  313 

expected,  but  Mrs.  Lunn  remained  tran 
quil,  and  glanced  up  at  him  inquiringly. 

"It  relates  to  the  future,"  explained  Cap 
tain  Asa  Shaw.  "I  make  no  doubt  you 
have  seen  what  my  feelin's  have  been  this 
good  while.  I  can  offer  you  a  good  home, 
and  I  shall  want  you  to  have  your  liberty." 

"I  enjoy  a  good  home  and  my  liberty 
now,"  said  Mrs.  Lunn  stiffly,  looking 
straight  before  her. 

"  I  mean  liberty  to  use  my  means,  and  to 
have  plenty  to  do  with,  so  as  to  make  you 
feel  comfortable,"  explained  the  captain, 
reddening.  "Mis'  Lunn,  I 'm  a  straight 
forward  business  man,  and  I  intend  busi 
ness  now.  I  don't  know  any  of  your  flow 
ery  ways  of  sayin'  things,  but  there  ain't 
anybody  in  Longport  I  'd  like  better  to  see 
at  the  head  of  my  house.  You  and  I  ain't 
young,  but  we  " 

"Don't  say  a  word,  sir,"  protested  Mrs. 
Lunn.  "You  can  get  you  just  as  good 
housekeepers  as  I  am.  I  don't  feel  to 
change  my  situation  just  at  present,  sir." 

"Is  that  final?  "  said  Captain  Shaw,  look 
ing  crestfallen.  " Come  now,  Maria !  I'm 
a  good-hearted  man,  I  'm  worth  over  forty 
thousand  dollars,  and  I  '11  make  you  a  good 


314  ALL   MY   SAD    CAPTAINS. 

husband,  I  promise.  Here 's  the  minister 
on  your  hands,  I  know.  I  did  feel  all 
ashore  when  I  found  you  'd  promised  to 
take  him  in.  I  tried  to  get  a  chance  to 
speak  with  you  before  you  went  off,  but 
when  I  come  home  from  New  York  't  was 
the  first  news  I  heard.  I  don't  deem  it  best 
for  you;  you  can't  make  nothin'  out  o'  one 
boarder,  anyway.  I  tried  it  once  myself." 

"Excuse  me,  Mr.  Shaw,"  said  Mrs. 
Lunn  coldly;  "I  know  my  own  business 
best.  You  have  had  my  answer,  sir."  She 
added  in  a  more  amiable  tone,  "Not  but 
what  I  feel  obliged  to  you  for  pay  in'  me  the 
compliment." 

There  was  a  sudden  loud  knocking  at  the 
side  door,  which  startled  our  friends  ex 
tremely.  They  looked  at  each  other  with 
apprehension;  then  Mrs.  Lunn  slowly  rose 
and  answered  the  summons. 

The  gentle  voice  of  the  giant  was  heard 
without.  "Oh,  Mis'  Lunn,"  said  Captain 
Crowe  excitedly,  "I  saw  some  elegant  mack 
erel  brought  ashore,  blown  up  from  the 
south'ard,  I  expect,  though  so  late  in  the 
season ;  and  I  recalled  that  you  once  found 
some  acceptable.  I  thought  't  would  help 
you  out." 


ALL    MY   SAD    CAPTAINS.  315 

"I'm  obliged  to  you,  Captain  Crowe," 
said  the  mistress  of  the  house;  "and  to 
think  of  your  bring-in'  'em  yourself  this 
drenchin'  day !  I  take  it  very  neighborly, 
sir."  Her  tone  was  entirely  different  from 
that  in  which  she  had  conducted  so  decisive 
a  conversation  with  the  guest  in  the  sitting- 
room.  They  heard  the  front  door  bang  just 
as  Captain  Crowe  entered  with  his  fish. 

"Was  that  the  wind  sprung  up  so  quick?  " 
he  inquired,  alert  to  any  change  of  weather. 

"I  expect  it  was  Captain  Shaw,  just 
leavin',"  said  Mrs.  Limn  angrily.  "He's 
always  full  o'  business,  ain't  he?  No  won 
der  those  children  of  his  are  without  man 
ners."  There  was  no  favor  in  her  tone,  and 
the  spirits  of  Captain  Crowe  were  for  once 
equal  to  his  height. 

The  daylight  was  fading  fast.  The  mack 
erel  were  deposited  in  their  proper  place, 
and  the  donor  was  kindly  bidden  to  come  in 
and  sit  down.  Mrs.  Lunn's  old-fashioned 
sitting-room  was  warm  and  pleasant,  and 
the  big  captain  felt  that  his  moment  had 
come;  the  very  atmosphere  was  encourag 
ing.  He  was  sitting  in  the  rocking-chair, 
and  she  had  taken  her  place  by  the  window. 
There  was  a  pause ;  the  captain  remembered 


V 


316  ALL    MY   SAD    CAPTAINS. 

how  he  had  felt  once  in  the  China  Seas  just 
before  a  typhoon  struck  the  ship. 

"Maria,"  he  said  huskily,  his  voice  sound 
ing  as  if  it  came  from  the  next  room,  — 
"Maria,  I  s'pose  you  know  what  I  'm  think- 
in'  of?" 

"I  don't,"  said  Mrs.  Limn,  with  cheerful 
firmness.  "Cap'ii  Crowe,  I  know  it  ain't 
polite  to  talk  about  your  goin'  when  you  've 
just  come  in ;  but  when  you  do  go,  I  've  got 
something  I  want  to  send  over  to  your  sister 
Eliza." 

The  captain  gasped;  there  was  something 
in  her  tone  that  he  could  not  fathom.  He 
began  to  speak,  but  his  voice  failed  him 
altogether.  There  she  sat,  perfectly  self- 
possessed,  just  as  she  looked  every  day. 

"  What  are  you  payiii'  now  for  potatoes, 
sir?"  continued  Mrs.  Limn. 

"Sixty  cents  a  bushel  for  the  last, 
ma'am,"  faltered  the  captain.  "I  wish 
you'd  hear  to  me,  Maria,"  he  burst  out. 
"I  wish" - 

"Now  don't,  cap'n,"  urged  the  pleasant 
little  woman.  "I've  made  other  arrange 
ments.  At  any  rate,"  she  added,  with  her 
voice  growing  more  business-like  than  ever, 
-  "at  any  rate,  I  deem  it  best  to  wait  until 


ALL   MY   SAD    CAPTAINS.  317 

the  late  potatoes  come  into  market;  they 
seem  to  keep  better." 

The  typhoon  had  gone  past,  but  the  cap 
tain  waited  a  moment,  still  apprehensive. 
Then  he  took  his  hat,  and  slowly  and  sadly 
departed  without  any  words  of  farewell. 
In  spite  of  his  lame  foot  he  walked  some 
distance  beyond  his  own  house,  in  a  fit  of 
absent  -  mindedness  that  was  born  of  deep 
regret.  It  was  impossible  to  help  respect 
ing  Mrs.  Lunn's  character  and  ability  more 
than  ever.  "Oh!  them  ministers,  them 
ministers!"  he  groaned,  turning  in  at  his 
high  white  gate  between  the  tall  posts  with 
their  funeral  urns. 

Mrs.  Limn  heard  the  door  close  behind 
Captain  Crowe;  then  she  smoothed  down 
her  nice  white  apron  abstractedly,  and 
glanced  out  of  the  window  to  see  if  he  were 
out  of  sight,  but  she  could  not  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  captain's  broad,  expressive 
back,  to  judge  his  feelings  or  the  manner 
in  which  he  was  taking  his  rebuff.  She  felt 
unexpectedly  sorry  for  him;  it  was  lonely 
in  his  handsome,  large  house,  where  his  two 
sisters  made  so  poor  a  home  for  him  and 
such  a  good  one  for  themselves. 

It  was   almost  dark  now,  and  the  shut 


318  ALL    MY   SAD    CAPTAINS. 

windows  of  the  room  made  the  afternoon 
seem  more  gloomy ;  the  days  were  fast  grow 
ing  shorter.  After  her  successful  conduct 
of  the  affair  with  her  two  lovers,  she  felt  a 
little  lonely  and  uncertain.  Although  she 
had  learned  to  dislike  Captain  Shaw,  and 
had  dismissed  him  with  no  small  pleasure, 
with  Captain  Crowe  it  was  different;  he 
was  a  good,  kind-hearted  man,  and  she  had 
made  a  great  effort  to  save  his  feelings. 

Just  then  her  quick  ears  caught  the  sound 
of  a  footstep  in  the  street.  She  listened  in 
tently  for  a  moment,  and  then  stood  close 
to  the  window,  looking  out.  The  rain  was 
falling  steadily;  it  streaked  the  square  panes 
in  long  lines,  so  that  Mrs.  Lunn's  heart 
recognized  the  approach  of  a  friend  more 
easily  than  her  eyes.  But  the  expected  um 
brella  tipped  away  on  the  wind  as  it  passed, 
so  that  she  could  see  the  large  ivory  handle. 
She  lifted  the  sash  in  an  instant.  "I  wish 
you  'd  step  in  just  one  minute,  sir,  if  it 's 
perfectly  convenient,"  she  said  appealingly, 
and  then  felt  herself  grow  very  red  in  the 
face  as  she  crossed  the  room  and  opened  the 
door. 

"I'm  'most  too  wet  to  come  into  a  lady's 
parlor,"  apologized  Captain  Witherspoon 


ALL   MY  SAD    CAPTAINS.  319 

gallantly.  "Command  me,  Mrs.  Lunn,  if 
there 's  any  way  I  can  serve  you.  I  expect 
to  go  down  street  again  this  evening." 

"Do  you  think  you  'd  better,  sir?  "  gently 
inquired  Mrs.  Lunn.  There  was  something 
beautiful  about  the  captain's  rosy  cheeks 
and  his  curly  gray  hair.  His  kind  blue 
eyes  beamed  at  her  like  a  boy's. 

"I  have  had  some  business  fall  to  me, 
you  see,  Cap'n,"  she  continued,  blushing 
still  more;  "and  I  feel  as  if  I'd  better  ask 
your  advice.  My  late  cousin,  Mrs.  Hicks, 
has  left  me  all  her  property.  The  amount 
is  very  unexpected ;  I  never  looked  for  more 
than  a  small  remembrance.  There  will 
have  to  be  steps  taken." 

"Command  me,  madam,"  said  the  cap 
tain  again,  to  whom  it  never  for  one  moment 
occurred  that  Mrs.  Lunn  was  better  skilled 
in  business  matters  than  himself.  He  in 
stantly  assumed  the  place  of  protector,  which 
she  so  unaffectedly  offered.  For  a  minute 
he  stood  like  an  admiral  ready  to  do  the 
honors  of  his  ship ;  then  he  put  out  his  hon 
est  hand. 

"Maria,"  he  faltered,  and  the  walls  about 
him  seemed  to  flicker  and  grow  unsteady,  — 
"  Maria,  I  dare  say  it 's  no  time  to  say  the 


320  ALL   MY  SAD    CAPTAINS. 

word  just  now,  but  if  you  could  feel  toward 
me  "  - 

He  never  finished  the  sentence ;  he  never 
needed  to  finish  it.  Maria  Limn  said  no 
word  in  answer,  but  they  each  took  a  step 
forward.  They  may  not  have  been  young, 
but  they  knew  all  the  better  how  to  value 
happiness. 

About  half  an  hour  afterward,  the  cap 
tain  appeared  again  in  the  dark  street,  in 
all  the  rain,  without  his  umbrella.  As  he 
paraded  toward  his  lodgings,  he  chanced  to 
meet  the  Reverend  Mr.  Farley,  whom  he 
saluted  proudly.  He  had  demurred  a  little 
at  the  minister's  making  a  third  in  their 
household ;  but  in  the  brief,  delightful  space 
of  their  engagement,  Mrs.  Limn  had  laid 
before  him  her  sensible  plans,  and  persuaded 
Captain  Witherspoon  that  the  minister  — 
dear,  good  man !  —  was  one  who  always  had 
his  head  in  a  book  when  he  was  in  the  house, 
and  would  never  give  a  bit  of  trouble ;  and 
that  they  might  as  well  have  the  price  of 
his  board  and  the  pleasure  of  his  company 
as  anybody. 

Mrs.  Limn  sat  down  to  her  belated  and 
solitary  supper,  and  made  an  excellent  meal. 
"  'T  will  be  pleasant  for  me  to  have  company 


ALL   MY  SAD    CAPTAINS.  321 

again,"  she  murmured.  "I  think  'tis  better 
for  a  person."  She  had  a  way,  as  many 
lonely  women  have,  of  talking  to  herself, 
just  for  the  sake  of  hearing  the  sound  of  a 
voice.  "I  guess  Mr.  Farley's  situation  is 
goin'  to  please  him,  too,"  she  added;  "I 
feel  as  if  I  'd  done  it  all  for  the  best."  Mrs. 
Limn  rose,  and  crossed  the  room  with  a 
youthful  step,  and  stood  before  the  little 
looking-glass,  holding  her  head  this  way 
and  that,  like  a  girl;  then  she  turned,  still 
blushing  a  little,  and  put  away  the  tea- 
things.  "  'T  is  about  time  now  for  the  Cap'n 
to  go  down  town  after  his  newspaper,"  she 
whispered ;  and  at  that  moment  the  Captain 
opened  the  door. 

One  day,  the  next  spring,  Captain  Crowe, 
who  had  always  honored  the  heroine  of  this 
tale  for  saving  his  self-respect,  and  allowing 
him  to  affirm  with  solemn  asseverations  that 
though  she  was  a  prize  for  any  man,  he 
never  had  really  offered  himself  to  Mrs. 
Lunn  —  Captain  Crowe  and  Captain  With- 
erspoon  were  sitting  at  the  head  of  Long 
Wharf  together  in  the  sunshine. 

"I've  been  a  very  fortunate  man,  sir," 
said  the  little  captain  boldly.  "My  own 


322  ALL   MY   SAD    CAPTAINS. 

property  has  looked  up  a  good  deal  since  I 
was  married,  what  with  that  piece  of  land  I 
sold  for  the  new  hotel,  and  other  things  that 
have  come  to  bear  —  this  wharf  property, 
for  instance.  I  shall  have  to  lay  out  con 
siderable  for  new  plank,  but  I  'm  able  to  do 
it." 

"Yes,  sir;  things  have  started  up  in 
Longport  a  good  deal  this  spring;  but  it 
never  is  goin'  to  be  what  it  was  once,"  an 
swered  Captain  Crowe,  who  had  grown  as 
much  older  as  his  friend  had  grown  younger 
since  the  autumn,  though  he  always  looked 
best  out  of  doors.  "  Don't  you  think,  Cap 
tain  Witherspoon,"  he  said,  changing  his 
tone,  "that  you  ought  to  consider  the  mat 
ter  of  re-shinglin'  your  house  ?  You  '11  have 
to  engage  men  now,  anyway,  to  do  your 
plankuV.  I  know  of  some  extra  cedar  shin 
gles  that  were  landed  yesterday  from  some- 
wheres  up  river.  Or  was  Mis'  Witherspoon 
a  little  over-anxious  last  season?" 

"I  think,  with  proper  attention,  sir," 
said  the  Captain  sedately,  "that  the  present 
shingles  may  last  us  a  number  of  years  yet." 


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